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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26435305">Player Vs. Player</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyna_is_epic/pseuds/Reyna_is_epic'>Reyna_is_epic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Amphibia (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Marcy Wu, F/F, Found Family, Growth, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I dunno I was just feeling violent today, I just wanted to feel something, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Gore, Multiple Pov, Nausea, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Marcy Wu, Relationship boundaries, Sad Sasha Hours, Sasha x Consequences, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, Sword Fighting, Trauma, Tread With Caution, Violence, Whump, Written pre-season 2b, You might cry, big sad, exploration of dark themes, idk - Freeform, no beta we die like men, sad anne hours, sad everybody hours, sad marcy hours, sword fights, trigger warning, yeah I didn't think I'd be discussing that so much</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:27:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>61,331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26435305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyna_is_epic/pseuds/Reyna_is_epic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This was too far, way, way too far. Sasha felt like she was going to be sick, there was no way this had happened, right? No way she’d become so invested in this stupid little game of hers and Anne’s that she’d actually… actually…</p><p>Anne’s body shook- no, twitched- violently. A sob pulling at her ribcage before cutting off in a pained wheeze. Sasha could only stare at the blood pooling beneath her feet. </p><p>She took a step forward, hand raised tentatively.</p><p> “A-Anne…. I-I-” </p><p>__</p><p>In which things go too far.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Boonchuy &amp; Hopadiah "Hop Pop" Plantar, Anne Boonchuy &amp; Sasha Waybright &amp; Marcy Wu, Anne Boonchuy &amp; Sprig Plantar, Anne Boonchuy/Marcy Wu, Sasha Waybright &amp; Marcy Wu, Sasha Waybright/Anne Boonchuy - Onesided</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1049</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Enter Player Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Howdy! I just wanted to add a little preface to this in case anyone new stumbles across this little piece of mine:</p><p>This fic is dark.</p><p>I don't mean that it is overly violent, or graphic except for in a few key parts, but this fic is not an easy read. It deals with some pretty severe emotions and themes, so do not take this warning lightly.</p><p>On top of that, I want to iterate that, while the main pairing in this fic is Marcanne, that is not always gonna be the main focus. In fact, it probably won't be most of the time. I want to give all of the girls some time in the spotlight so that we can explore their reactions to this world they're stuck in and how it is affecting them.</p><p>That all being said, this fic might not be for you.</p><p>-Reyna</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🐸~</p><p>The ring of metal on metal never got any better, no matter how many times Anne heard it. Especially not when she could feel it reverberating up her arms and down her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha growled, her teeth clenched so tightly that Anne could hear them grinding together, before pushing off of the parry with all of her strength. A good few feet suddenly sprung between them.</p><p> </p><p>“You should’ve backed down Anne, you know that you’re not cut out for this.” The words should’ve been biting, maybe even taunting, but Anne just couldn’t find the energy within herself to care. She barely had the energy to keep her sword point away from the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Following Sasha through the Newtopian catacombs had been one thing, dealing with the several, worrying number of toad guards posted along the way had been another. She was almost certain that she’d broken a few ribs and her ears were still ringing from one too many knocks to the head.</p><p> </p><p>“Just shut up and come at me,” the words tasted wrong in her mouth, heavy with breath and tinged with an iron taste that was growing stronger by the second.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha sneered and Anne hated how familiar the expression was. </p><p> </p><p>Her sword flashed in the dim lighting, an arch of flame screaming towards her face. Anne just barely deflected it’s arch before it could impale itself into the side of her head. She lunged, sweeping towards Sasha’s legs, and the blonde jumped back to wind up for another attack.</p><p> </p><p>“This is pointless, Anne!” She punctuated the sentence with an overhead strike and Anne stumbled back under the weight of it. She was lucky this part of the catacombs wasn’t covered in water or she’d have certainly slipped.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha pressed in close, their faces only inches apart.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not staying in this world! Our actions don’t matter, our allegiances are fake! You’re defending a group of fucking <em> frogs </em>you’ll never see again!”</p><p> </p><p>Anne willed the strength to keep herself from crying. Her ribs certainly were and the edges of her vision had turned fuzzy.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re <em>not </em>frogs!” the words tore from her throat, guttural and primal. She shifted her weight to throw Sasha back, away from her. She skidded across the stone, boots scrambling for purchase. “They’re my family, and I am <em> done </em>with you deciding what I can and can’t do!” </p><p> </p><p>Anne lunged, impaling the floor where Sasha’s foot would’ve been. </p><p> </p><p>“I am <em> done </em> with you deciding who I get to value!” She swung her weight, using the sword as leverage to get a good kick into Sasha’s midsection, “I am <em> done </em>letting you control my life out of some stupid fear of rejection!”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s glare could’ve melted steel.</p><p> </p><p>“I was trying to protect you!”</p><p> </p><p>Anne felt like vomiting.</p><p> </p><p>“You were protecting yourself!”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha screamed and swung her blade with all of her might.</p><p> </p><p>Anne lurched on the handle of her own, but found that it wouldn’t budge.</p><p> </p><p>The world froze in its motion.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s blade, red in the dim light, lowered fractions of inches, her jaw wide open and teeth bared for the world to see. Her swing wasn’t stopping, getting closer and closer to Anne’s face with each millisecond. She could practically taste the steel of the blade, she could see the reflection of her own wide eyes swimming within it.</p><p> </p><p>She moved without thinking.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>You’d be amazed at the sound flesh makes when it’s torn asunder.</p><p> </p><p>Eyes watched as the appendage fell, coming to rest on the stone with a sickeningly wet thump.</p><p> </p><p>It was remarkable, really, the colour of the flesh hadn’t even begun to fade. Still the same warm tan that it had always been. A thick, crimson liquid was just beginning to pool beneath it.</p><p> </p><p>Someone screamed.</p><p> </p><p>The red sword clattered to the ground as the world slammed back into motion. One of the girls stumbled back, clutching at the gushing stump of her arm. She only made it three steps before her legs gave out, spilling her to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>~🗡️~</p><p>Sasha’s eyes were wide, the pupils turned to pinpricks implanted deep within the irises, shaking like leaves in the wind. She felt light-headed, dizzy, sick even, as more and more of the crimson began to stain the stone… as Anne’s panicked cries started to peter off, her body slumping back against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“A-Anne…” All of her fight had abandoned her. All of the righteous anger, gone like a dream. It had left the moment the sword fell from her hands, the moment Anne screamed, the moment her sword met flesh and blood sprayed across her face.</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t even look at it, the… <em> thing… </em>laying between them like a declaration of war.</p><p> </p><p>No. A monument to her cruelty.</p><p> </p><p>This was too far, way, way too far. She felt like she was going to be sick, there was no way this had happened, right? No way she’d become so invested in this stupid little game of hers and Anne’s that she’d actually… actually…</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s body shook- no, twitched- violently. A sob pulling at her ribcage before cutting off in a pained wheeze. Sasha could only stare at the blood pooling beneath her feet. </p><p> </p><p>She took a step forward, hand raised tentatively.</p><p> </p><p> “A-Anne…. I-I-” </p><p> </p><p>Something slammed across her face and a bright popping sensation filled her nose, forcing her eyes to water as more of the crimson began to gush down her lips. Her wrists were seized in an iron-like grip and she was wrenched backwards until her spine made a painful connection with the wall.</p><p> </p><p>Twin green flames danced before her eyes, a shadow cast around them by the cloak pulled low over her attacker’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>You.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha felt what little remained of her spirit crumble because she <em>recognized </em>that voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Marce-”</p><p> </p><p>That hard and metal thing connected with her jaw once more and she was forced to become acquainted with the taste of Newtopia’s walls. Then a hand wrapped around her newly sore chin and yanked it back around. The fingers squeezed tight.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy looked exactly like she’d left her, round-faced and wide-eyed with a cute little button nose to match, hardly an intimidating appearance. But her shoulders were covered in armour, her hand gloved and armoured and covered in blood that Sasha would bet money on belonging to her own bleeding nose.</p><p> </p><p>And her eyes… that was new. They glowed a sickly shade of green, illuminating her whole face beneath her hood and turning her scowl into something that would haunt Sasha’s nightmares for years to come.</p><p> </p><p>“This…” when she spoke her voice <em>hurt. </em> It was hard and hot and sharp enough to kill, her whole body shook with the effort of producing it. “Is <em>not </em>a <b> <em>game!</em> </b>”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s head made another connection with the wall as Marcy lifted her and slammed her back against it.</p><p> </p><p>“W-wha-” she managed to splutter in spite of her shock. Marcy silenced her with another glare.</p><p> </p><p>“This is <em> real life</em>, Sasha!” Her voice shook with the volume, trembled beneath the weight of the rage she could feel pouring off of her in waves. The white-hot fury that seemed to just coax the intensity of those venomous eyes until they bore straight into Sasha’s soul. “Real- <em> goddamn </em> - life! This might not be our world, but it is <em>a world, </em>and there are real!" She lifted her and slammed her against the wall again, "Lives!" and again, "At stake!” and again.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s hand, still clenched around her jaw, loosened just a fraction so that she could trail it up the side of her face to rest on the scar Anne had given her in their last encounter. </p><p> </p><p>“This scar is <em> not </em>going away.” Suddenly, violently, Marcy wrenched back and Sasha screwed her eyes tightly shut in anticipation of another slam into the wall. Instead, she was yanked downwards, away from the wall and onto her knees. </p><p> </p><p>Left in front of that <em>damn </em>appendage.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s voice hissed behind her ear, hot and wet, “Anne’s hand is not going to reattach itself, and it is <em> not </em>going to grow back.”</p><p> </p><p>She was shoved once more, landing flat on her back to stare up into the venomous eyes of one Marcy Wu. A boot planted itself directly atop her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I could <em>kill</em> you, right now.” And, suddenly, the heat was gone. The words were cold. Empty. Void of all of the white-hot rage she’d been subjected to just a moment ago. Marcy pressed down with her boot, forcing all of the air from her lungs. “I have a fully powered crossbow mounted on my wrist, you have no protection on your neck, and we’re at point-blank range. I could <em> kill you </em> in a fraction of a second and there is nothing you could do about it.”</p><p> </p><p>A chill ran down Sasha’s spine.</p><p> </p><p>Then the pressure was gone. Marcy’s boot risen from her chest, but her eyes remained that sickening green glow.</p><p> </p><p>“But I’m not going to do that because I <em> understand </em>the consequences of my actions.”</p><p> </p><p>The venom in her words burns.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s gloved hand reached down and grabbed Sasha by the collar, yanking her upwards until she was nose to nose with the girl in question.</p><p> </p><p>“This is not a game, Sasha, and you have to live with the consequences. Anne is <em> never </em> going to be the same because of what <em> you </em>did.” </p><p> </p><p>She gave her one more shove for good measure, leaving her to land against the wall in a final painful impact.</p><p> </p><p>“Anne and I are going home.” She said the words so finally, so confidently that Sasha found that she actually believed her. “You can decide whether you want to come with us or keep playing your stupid little game until you realize that it isn’t one after all. Until you realize just how much blood you have on your hands.”</p><p> </p><p>She stood so straight, so tall, so… unlike the Marcy she once knew. With her back to the light, cape fallen around her shoulders, in front of Anne’s broken body, she looked like a guardian angel poised to attack.</p><p> </p><p>Poised to defend Anne from <em>her.</em></p><p> </p><p>Because <em>she’d</em> done this.</p><p> </p><p>Something landed in Sasha’s lap and it took her a full thirty seconds to register just what it was.</p><p> </p><p>Bile danced in her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“Take your trophy back to your <em> friends, </em> Sash.”</p><p> </p><p>Words had never sounded so cold.</p><p> </p><p>"And I'll take my friend <em>home.</em>"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Player One Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So she’d gone after her, armed to the teeth and with a buggaccino to go because the last thing she’d need was to collapse from exhaustion in the middle of a fight. It wasn’t hard to follow Anne’s trail, it was lined with the grumbling bruised bodies of toads who were all too eager to point in the direction of the two human girls who had run past earlier.<br/>Two.<br/>Sasha.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🦎~ </p><p>The expression “burning the candle at both ends” was one that Marcy had become infinitely familiar with at a young age.</p><p> </p><p>To be fair to her, it was simple biology that cursed her with insomnia, not her own desires. However, she quickly found the best ways to take advantage of the extra time she’d been given. To call her obsession with all things media-related (video games, books, comics, tv shows, stage plays, literally anything she could get her hands on) anything other than all-consuming would be a disservice. She didn’t just consume media, she <em>devoured </em>it. It was a scant few months after her fifth birthday before she’d all but exhausted her parent’s possible reading material within the house and grown tired of watching the same seven reruns of Spongebob on their cheap excuse for a television. Thus began the biweekly trips to the library where she’d check out as many books as she could carry.</p><p> </p><p>It was there that she finally met Anne and Sasha, and what a sight she must’ve been to behold: a tiny girl buried beneath piles and piles of books as big as she was, eyes stained a permanent bloodshot hue. It was a wonder they’d even approached her, and an even bigger one that they’d become friends.</p><p> </p><p>(Then again, perhaps it was inevitable. </p><p> </p><p>Marcy didn’t consider herself a spiritual person, but being in Newtopia had quickly taught her a few things: the world is never what you think it to be, and always much, much bigger.)</p><p> </p><p>Her appetite for knowledge did not diminish with age, and neither did her insomnia. She grew used to the burning sensation that would build up behind her eyes, she learned to work through the fuzziness her brain would occasionally get after a few too many hours spent awake, and she learned to get whatever precious little minutes of rest she could when her body finally deemed itself ready for it. Insomnia became less a ‘condition’ and more a way of life, the only one she’d ever known.</p><p> </p><p>Upon arriving in Newtopia, she quickly found that there were limits even she could not have predicted.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly her average amount of sleep went from four hours to two. The burning behind her eyes had escalated to the point where she had to invent eye-drops for herself. The fuzziness she’d learned to fight through would occasionally overwhelm her and send her dropping to the pavement wherever she’d been standing. Sleep became less of a scattered but precious resource and more of a luxury. When she wasn’t with the Knight Guard she was researching a way to get back home, when she wasn’t researching a way to get back home she was training for the Guard, when she wasn’t training for the Guard she was improving her tools, and on and on and on. </p><p> </p><p>But it was fine. She grew, she adapted, she <em>survived</em>. Life was not easy, but it was still life and, sure, maybe sometimes shapes in the distance would look more like clouds than approaching danger. And maybe sometimes the shadows would leap and dance around her like flames to a fire, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. This world had so much to offer, so much to explore, so much to learn that she just couldn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Then Anne showed up and Marcy grabbed the candle by both hands before shoving it directly into the fire.</p><p> </p><p>Two hours of sleep became none. The aches in her eyes were permanent. The fuzz in her brain, practically mind-numbing. She was sure if she wasn’t running on pure adrenaline and buggacinos she would’ve collapsed at literally any second.</p><p> </p><p>But where her energy failed her, Anne’s did not. For every second of misery, there was one of light because Anne was <em>here</em>. She was here and she was alive and she was safe. Marcy hadn’t really realized just how much she was missing home until it was staring her dead in the face with eyes she knew like the back of her hand.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, this world had changed her, just as it had changed herself, but Anne was still Anne. She was still just as bright, just as kind, and just as anchoring as she’d always been. A rock for Marcy to stand on even as the ocean rocked beneath her feet.</p><p> </p><p>She was tired, but Anne was there smiling her bright smile. Marcy couldn’t help it if she perked up just a bit. If she suddenly found the strength to finish her patrol, complete a report, or read her paperwork. Anne was there, and that was what mattered. They weren’t home, not yet, but they were closer. Just by being together, they were that much closer.</p><p> </p><p>Then it changed again.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Sprig came to get her during one of her rare naps, and she would’ve found it ironic if she had the consciousness to think about it for longer than ten seconds. She didn’t even remember exactly what he’d said, just that Anne had disappeared into the sewers and that she was chasing somebody. </p><p> </p><p>She’d gone-- of course she did-- because as much evidence as there was to the contrary, she knew that she was competent and she was the best back-up that Anne had when it came to a fight. Anne wasn’t an idiot... most of the time... she wouldn’t run into a fight without a good reason, especially one that involved running around in the sewers after that little incident they’d had with the sewer-gator. </p><p> </p><p>So she’d gone after her, armed to the teeth and with a buggaccino to go because the last thing she’d need was to collapse from exhaustion in the middle of a fight. It wasn’t hard to follow Anne’s trail, it was lined with the grumbling bruised bodies of toads who were all too eager to point in the direction of the two human girls who had run past earlier.</p><p> </p><p>Two.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha.</p><p> </p><p>That certainly explained some things.</p><p> </p><p>Anne had told her the details of her and Sasha’s fight, and she’d spent the rest of the day mulling over it within the confines of the library. Anne and Sash never fought. Marcy wasn’t sure she’d ever even seen them disagree before, at least not over anything more serious than ice-cream flavours.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy found Anne and Sash by the sounds of metal on metal, the grunts of exertion, the taunts tossed back and forth like they meant nothing more than noise. She reached the opening they were in (a maintenance tunnel) just in time to watch Anne land a kick to Sasha’s midsection, vaulting off of her own sword to do so.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha skidded backwards, breath coming in huffs that made her armour rise and fall in waves that made her look much larger than she was. Her glare was fire, actual fire, glowing crimson in the low light.</p><p> </p><p>“I was trying to protect you!” The words came in a snarl, more animal than human.</p><p> </p><p>Anne laughed and the sound was dry, crackling.</p><p> </p><p>“You were protecting yourself!”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha screamed and the sound split the ground, rattled the stone, and forced Marcy to screw her eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p>Then there was silence.</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Silence...</p><p> </p><p>Marcy pried her eyes open.</p><p> </p><p>There was something on the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Anne screamed.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>The trek back was harder for... Obvious reasons. Extra weight aside, the adrenaline running through Marcy's veins was enough to shake each of her limbs, force each of her breaths to come out in heavy, enraged huffs.</p><p> </p><p>She'd never felt that angry in her life.</p><p> </p><p>Anne's body wasn't limp, not quite, but her head rested in the junction between Marcy's neck and shoulder like she didn't have the strength to hold it up. Each shaky warm breath brushed against her skin, a large contrast to the wet chill of Anne’s own. Marcy's grip on her waist was slick with sweat and something a bit darker.</p><p> </p><p>"'m sorry..." Anne mumbled for perhaps the seventh time since their walk had started and Marcy fought the inexplicable urge to cry.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not your fault Anne." She urged once more, adjusting her grip on Anne's arm that was thrown around her neck. The other hung at her side, tied tight with a strip of cloth from Marcy's cloak. It was already dyed a much darker hue.</p><p> </p><p>"'m still sorry..." Anne replied, feet scuffing against the stone.</p><p> </p><p>Silence prevailed for a few more moments before Anne drew in a large breath.</p><p> </p><p>"It's really gone... isn't it?"</p><p> </p><p>Marcy couldn't help it if a tear escaped down her face. Heat bubbled in the pit of her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm so sorry, Anne."</p><p> </p><p>Anne was quiet for an agonizing moment. The only sound Marcy could hear was that of her ragged breath and the wet squelching of their shoes.</p><p> </p><p>"We... We can't come back from this..."</p><p> </p><p>That made Marcy stop, her feet making squeaking noises on the stone. They stood unmoving, Anne all too eager to stop forcing her legs to move. She sagged against her and Marcy had to strain to keep them upright.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, we're gonna get home," she said the words much more confidently than she meant them, and she watched the top of Anne's head shake in what took much too long to register as bitter laughter.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't... I don't mean that..." She lifted her head, just for a moment, to fix Marcy with the most tear-stained grin she'd ever seen. Her skin was growing pale. "I meant... Us... You, me, an..." The smile disappeared and her head dipped back down, glancing at her hand which was no longer there, "Sash..."</p><p> </p><p>Marcy felt her stomach drop, her jaw unclench.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, Anne..." </p><p> </p><p>Anne laughed and the motion shook her entire body. She reached up to wipe at her face but there was nothing there to do it with so she just started laughing harder. Tears poured down her cheeks. Her legs gave out and Marcy was forced to go down with her, clutching her by the waist.</p><p> </p><p>"I-I thought... tha... that there was still a chance... Aft... after the tower I thought..." The words came in hiccups, bitter sobs that trembled in Marcy's hands, against her chest, her ribs, her spine. She could feel Anne splitting apart beneath her fingers and all she could do was hold tight. "I thought... we-we could work it out..."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm so sorry..." It tasted bitter on her tongue, hollow. Because, even though she was sorry, she couldn't find it within herself to grieve right now. Not for Sasha. Not for the girl with her friend's blood staining her face, her clothes, her blade. There was no grief or remorse for that.</p><p> </p><p>Only the rage that boiled bright beneath her skin.</p><p> </p><p>“She-she was my friend!” Anne’s voice broke, a hoarse cry that echoed around them against the stone. It washed down Marcy’s spine like a bucket of ice. </p><p> </p><p>Then,</p><p> </p><p>“...she was my best friend…”</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t… I don’t wanna lose her…”</p><p> </p><p>So small.</p><p> </p><p>So soft.</p><p> </p><p>Begging, pleading.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’ wanna lose her, Marc…”</p><p> </p><p>She could feel her grip on Anne’s waist tightening, but not much else. She was… numb really. </p><p> </p><p>Sasha had done this, <em> she </em>had sheared Anne’s limb from her body and stood over the corpse. <em> She </em>had permanently wounded, permanently <em>crippled </em>Anne. There was no coming back from this, there was no way to reattach that limb.</p><p> </p><p>And Anne grieved for <em>her. </em> </p><p> </p><p>For a lost friendship.</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy felt… she wasn’t sure, but it <em>hurt</em>. It hurt like a million knives embedded into her chest, twisting and turning and ripping at the flesh. Not only did it hurt, it <em>burned</em>, it ached, and she felt like she was going to be sick, dizzy from the force of it.</p><p> </p><p>Anger- no, fury- no, <em> wrath </em>- spilt from something, deep, deep within her and churned itself up into her throat. Something primal made itself a home in her chest and her arms locked around Anne’s form, iron and protective.</p><p> </p><p>Anne cried in her arms, holding on for dear life with that one hand of hers, grieving for a friend who had lost her way.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy cried too, but her tears were not for Sasha.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>“‘Ey Marce….” </p><p> </p><p>They’d started walking again about ten minutes ago, mostly because Marcy couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving Anne without treatment for too long. Her breathing was getting faster and her skin was becoming slick. Her words had started to slur together.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Anne…” </p><p> </p><p><em> You’re supposed to keep them talking, right? </em> She wondered, <em> Or is that with people who hit their head? Damn it! Of all the stupid things I studied why was first-aid not one of them! </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re… m-mmmy bes-fren… too…” </p><p> </p><p>Anne’s hand made a strange grabbing motion that Marcy thinks was supposed to be a pat on the shoulder but ended up being more of a caress against her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh… thanks Anne…” she didn’t really know how to respond to that. “You… too?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne hummed, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was in satisfaction or curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>“I juz… dinnit want ya ta think… I liked sash… more ‘an you…”</p><p> </p><p>Something strangely warm popped into Marcy’s chest and she had to restrain the sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“I…” she let the word hang for a moment, unsure how to word the warmth bubbling in her throat, “have never doubted you, Anne.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne hummed again, and this time she knew it was out of satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a goo’ one, Marce…” She jostled a little, just enough to bump her head against the side of Marcy’s neck. It was a soft, almost nuzzle-like gesture.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy felt her expression soften, just a little.</p><p> </p><p>“Love you too, Anne.”</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Marcy didn’t sleep for the next three days.</p><p> </p><p>Not a single wink.</p><p> </p><p>After they got Anne to a hospital she spent the next several hours with the Newts in surgery, providing the best she could when it came to her very limited knowledge of human biology. Then, once the wound had been cauterized and wrapped properly (and she’d been permanently scarred for life after watching Anne’s barely conscious body suddenly jerk upwards in a scream that rattled the paint off the wall), she’d gone to give her report to the King. Then, somehow, she’d ended back up at Anne’s bedside.</p><p> </p><p>And there she’d stayed for the next three days.</p><p> </p><p>The Plantars came as soon as they heard and it’d quickly become a revolving door of Hop-Pop and Sprig. She hadn’t gone two seconds without one of them by her side, their froggy tears left unshed as they struggled to fathom the fact that humans could not grow their limbs back.</p><p> </p><p>Sprig had told her a story, late that second night, about how Anne had broken her arm earlier into their stay in Amphibia. </p><p> </p><p>It was a toad.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy wanted… to cry was only part of it.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed that was all she wanted to do those three days: cry and yell and scream at the world for being so unfair. So cruel as to do this to Anne of all people.</p><p> </p><p>Anne who protected her, who looked out for her all of those years, who cried at their reunion and still tried to protect her even when she didn’t need it, not because she thought she was weak, but because she <em>cared </em>about her.</p><p> </p><p>Anne cared about little old nerd Marcy.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t tolerate her out of necessity like her parents did.</p><p> </p><p>Like Sasha had.</p><p> </p><p>The name set her whole body aflame. It forced her hands to clench, her teeth to grind, her heart to beat twice as hard against her ribcage. She meant what she’d said, Sasha could come home with them if she got her act together, but she’d rather die than ever let her lay a single finger on Anne again.</p><p> </p><p>She would.</p><p> </p><p>Because Anne cared about her and she was going to repay that with every fibre of her being. Even if it ate her alive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Press x to Heal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🐸~</p><p>Anne’s eyes opened slowly.</p><p> </p><p>So very, very slowly. Mostly because the lids felt… heavy. Heavy and sticky and much too uncomfortable. The ceiling above was dark, no lights to illuminate it, but her irises still burned, still ached like she was staring directly into the sun.</p><p> </p><p>The only light she could see was coming in from the far left, and it took much more effort than it should have to turn her head to the side and see the moon streaming through the window. A necessary effort, it seemed, as once she had she was able to see the hazy form of an elderly frog fast asleep in a chair beside her bed.</p><p> </p><p><em> Hop-Pop? </em> She meant to call out the word, but her jaw wouldn’t move. Her throat wouldn’t even open enough for her to groan. All she managed was a strange exhale that did nothing to disturb his peace.</p><p> </p><p>That was… weird.</p><p> </p><p>Anne tried to sit up, but her muscles refused to comply. Her arms remained limp at her sides and her spine let out a dull spike of pain when she tried to pry it up from the mattress. She sunk back against it, feeling weak and weary from even that much.</p><p> </p><p>Everything had a strange, distant quality to it, even the pain that throbbed through her body. It was all… muffled. Yes, that was the best way to describe it. It felt like someone had wrapped her entire body in several layers of gauze and then left her exposed to the elements.</p><p> </p><p>Anne tried to turn her head again so that she could get a better look at the room she was in but found that she didn’t have the strength to do more than blink awkwardly at Hop-Pop’s sleeping form and the moon illuminating the walls and floor behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Amphibia’s moon had always been a strange thing to think about. </p><p> </p><p>In a lot of ways, Amphibia was similar to earth to an almost painful degree: the same blue skies, same green grass, same tasting dirt and wind. The moon did not obey that pattern. It was a dull crimson colour that never seemed to change its position in the sky. It was considerably dimmer than the moon from home, where the moon from home would’ve painted the entire world in its silver glory, this crimson sliver barely even managed to illuminate the sky.</p><p> </p><p>It served as a reminder, Anne thought, that this world was not her own. Sometimes that was hard to remember, even when almost all of the people she interacted with on a daily basis had slimy skin and all of the food was bug-based. She’d only been in Amphibia for a few months, but it felt much closer to years. </p><p> </p><p>It should’ve been a worrying thing, that she found herself craving Beetle-burgers more often than those of ham these days, or that she’d started to forget the constellations in her own night sky. It should have been worrying, devastating even.</p><p> </p><p>But Anne didn’t really care.</p><p> </p><p>She wanted to get back to her parents, of course she did, but the longer they stayed here the less she wanted to leave. The more the Plantars became her family.</p><p> </p><p>As equally her family as her human mother and father back on Earth.</p><p> </p><p>On Earth.</p><p> </p><p>Not at home.</p><p> </p><p>She wasn’t even sure she knew where home was anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Because home had never been Earth anyway. It had never been that small town, or the two-story house her parents had just barely paid off the mortgage for. It had been the people. It had been Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa and Marcy and-</p><p> </p><p>And Sasha.</p><p> </p><p>A strange nagging feeling started in Anne’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>She was forgetting something, something important.</p><p> </p><p>The sound of a door quietly opening and closing pierced the night, but Anne still didn’t have the strength to raise her head and look towards the sound. She was rendered helpless as footsteps quietly rounded the side of the room she couldn’t reach, before stopping just outside her field of vision. A quiet exhale escaped the intruder.</p><p> </p><p>“You always pick the good ones, Anne…” she’d recognise that fond exasperation anywhere. For a moment, silence prevailed, then she felt something graze against her left wrist. “Well… almost always…”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could dwell on what that meant, Marcy entered her field of vision and in the low red-light she looked like hell. Her eyes, always somewhat sunken from years of bad sleep, now were little more than shadows embedded into her skull. Without proper lighting, it was impossible to see the whites of them and the bags beneath hung like the only things keeping them attached to her face were spite alone. Similarly, her shoulders hung from her spine, arms heavy and loose with too much strain and not enough rest, the armour along them rose and fell with each breath like she was fighting her way through it. Marcy’s hands were always so thin, those of a skeleton they’d joked as kids, but now they looked more akin to the branches of trees, pitch dark against the sky and trembling in the breeze.</p><p> </p><p>She shook Hop-Pop awake with a gentle prod, and the old frog lifted his head like it hurt to do so. His skin and eyes glistened wetly in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>“...Marcy?” he asked, still somewhat muddled with sleep. </p><p> </p><p>Marcy smiled, but the expression was little more than a contraction of the muscles around her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“You should go get some rest, I’m gonna be here for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>Hop-Pop’s brow furrowed. He straightened in his seat before letting out a series of grunts of discomfort.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the one who should be gettin’ some sleep, kiddo. You look like you haven’t in a blue moon.”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy just shook her head, her smile unmoving.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.” She answered simply, leaving the silence to hang between them as Hop-Pop’s expression grew in its concern. “Trust me, I’ve tried... I might as well be somewhat productive with my time.”</p><p> </p><p>He still did not look totally convinced.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy rolled her eyes, a small huff came from her lips which Anne thinks was supposed to be a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll send a message for you if anything happens. Worst case scenario, I actually manage to get some shut-eye in the same position you were in.”</p><p> </p><p>That seemed to finally convince him, though he still didn’t seem to like it. Hop-Pop rose from his seat, letting out assorted cracks and pops as he did. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll send Sprig in the mornin’.” Finally, his back let out a final battle-cry before he settled back into his normal posture and took his leave, his froggy-feet leaving little <em> fwaps </em>in his wake.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy watched him go, her eyes still inscrutable from shadow, until the door had closed behind him. Then she flopped into the now-vacant chair with all the grace of the recently deceased.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t move, didn’t speak, barely even seemed to be breathing. She just sat there, legs thrown over one of the arms of the most uncomfortable looking armchairs that Anne had seen in her life, either staring dramatically off to the right or with her eyes closed because Anne honestly couldn’t tell.</p><p> </p><p>Then the world’s largest sigh left her body, physically deflating her as it went. By the time it had actually reached its end, Marcy was all but laying across the arms of the chair, head thrown back so that her chin was facing the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>Then a strange… <em> clucking…? </em> sound started in her throat, shaking her entire body as it went. It took a full thirty seconds for it to finally click that Marcy was <em> laughing. </em></p><p> </p><p>Laughing the most exhausted laugh she’d ever heard in her life.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus fucking christ…” she hissed the words between bouts of laughter, and they sounded thick and heavy on her tongue. </p><p> </p><p>The laughter didn’t quite stop, so much as it eventually petered off, leaving Marcy’s body to sag limply back into the chair, her head at least somewhat facing the right direction this time.</p><p> </p><p>“So I’ve got good news, and bad news, which you wanna hear first?” This time, her voice was soft. Still tired, still bitter with an exhaustion that no normal person should’ve been able to bear, but soft. Fragile, almost.</p><p> </p><p>When no response answered, a huff escaped Marcy’s lips as she turned her body so that it was sitting the proper way in her chair.</p><p> </p><p>“Bad news first, then.” Once she’d finished her sentence her body went still, rigid, her face totally obscured in the shadows and hands clasped in her lap. The voice that came next was just as stiff in its delivery and unbelievably cold. “We’ve located Grime’s base of operations and the numbers he’s got aren’t looking pretty. Not to mention there’s been no sightings of <em> her </em>since… well, you know…”</p><p> </p><p>A chill rose in the air and Anne shivered accordingly. </p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s shoulders slumped and one of her hands reached out like she was going to touch her, before falling down to the arm of her chair.</p><p> </p><p>“The good news is that the doctors say you should be waking up soon…” Her voice regained its warmth, but with no energy to accompany it. Marcy’s hand tapped against the arm, a slow, languid pace.</p><p> </p><p>“I…” the hand didn’t stop tapping, but the rest of Marcy’s body was still, “I don’t doubt you, I <em> know </em>you’ll be able to bounce back from this, it's just….” The tapping stopped and Marcy’s hand balled into a fist. “It’s a lot, Anne.”</p><p> </p><p>The only sound was that of the cricket’s song in the distance.</p><p> </p><p>“God.” Marcy’s body slumped. She slid down against the back of her chair, hands coming up to rub at her face. “Fuck…” it was a grumble at first, then, louder, “FUCK!”</p><p> </p><p>There was a clatter outside of the door, but no footsteps came towards them. Macy’s hands raised before slamming down on the arms of her chair, rattling it with the force.</p><p> </p><p>“Just… fuck…” little more than a breath now. She let her head fall forwards, hands coming up once again to catch it. “We’re thirteen, Anne. We’re thir-fucking-teen and you’re…”</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Marcy sobbed.</p><p> </p><p>She wasn’t crying, because Marcy never cried and even when she did the tears never quite seemed to come in more than threes. No, but that motion was a sob, there was no other way to describe the rising and falling of her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>Then there was another.</p><p> </p><p>And another.</p><p> </p><p>And-<em> oh. </em></p><p> </p><p>She <em> was </em>crying.</p><p> </p><p>It felt like whatever haze that Anne had been wrapped in evaporated.</p><p> </p><p>She slammed back into her body and something that could not be named welled up inside her chest. Electricity pulsated through her veins. She was moving before she could even comprehend it, even notice that she could move once again. One moment she was trapped, a silent observer. The next her arms were closed around Marcy’s body as it was wracked with sobs.</p><p> </p><p>The world was so… strange. Bright and vibrant. Anne could see every follicle of Marcy’s hair, every reflection of the moon’s crimson light off of it and the hospital room. She could taste the antiseptic in the air, the sharp scent of smoke and lake water that always hung off of Marcy like a second skin. It felt like she’d taken off a blindfold, the world snapping into high-definition with hardly a second for her to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>She felt rather than heard Marcy’s intake of breath. Hands came up, slow and shaky in their movement, to rest against the blades of Anne’s shoulders. She’d never felt a touch that fragile before in her life.</p><p> </p><p>“A-Anne…?”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s voice had never sounded so lost.</p><p> </p><p>Breath came into her lungs like the drowned gasping for air, but before she could speak it rushed out of her once again, accompanied by the electricity that had taken her body hostage.</p><p> </p><p>Her legs buckled, the muscles turned to jelly. Just like that, all of her newly acquired senses snapped back in on themselves, leaving Anne blind and dazed as her body collapsed to the ground. Marcy’s cry followed her down, but it sounded as if she were shouting at her from across the ocean.</p><p> </p><p>Pressure wrapped itself beneath her arms, but Anne couldn’t parse out from what or why. Her head thundered like Zeus himself was having a party within it. Thoughts, feelings, emotions, colours all rushed past her in a whirlwind of incomprehensible mush. </p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s voice sounded close to her ear, but the words wouldn’t register. Her body left the ground, weightless for what felt like hours but what was probably closer to seconds, before she was laid out on a push surface once more.</p><p> </p><p>Her whole body throbbed in protest.</p><p> </p><p>The pressure started to leave her and for some reason, that idea just flashed across her mind as ‘unacceptable’. One of her arms lashed out, finding purchase on something warm and soft. It jumped in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“An.. ne…? Can... hear…?” </p><p> </p><p>Anne struggled to get her brain to comprehend sound.</p><p> </p><p>“Mar… cy…” her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with lead. An intake of breath echoed around her.</p><p> </p><p>Something wet collected on her palm.</p><p> </p><p>“Anne!” there were more words after that one, but they didn’t translate as anything other than noise. Her field of vision was still limited to what she could glimpse between the dancing spots of darkness. Just barely, she could make out Marcy’s hair bouncing as she spoke.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hah… Marcy was a pretty bouncy person, wasn’t she? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Anne could feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>The soft thing underneath her hand shook, trembled really, and she felt another wet something collect against it.</p><p> </p><p>Her smile faded.</p><p> </p><p>“Marce…” she choked out and the soft thing jumped once again. “Don’t… cry…”</p><p> </p><p>A pause, silence. For a moment, Anne wondered if she’d fallen asleep once again. Then, quietly, painfully, she heard Marcy laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“F…” she wheezed and the soft thing leaned into her hand, one of Marcy’s own came up to hold it there. “Fuck… Anne…”</p><p> </p><p>Anne groaned in protest, eliciting another peal of quiet laughter.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, the black spots started to leave her vision. Marcy’s face begins to reconstruct itself and for the first time, Anne can see the tears flowing from Marcy’s sunken eyes. She can see the red surrounding their darkened irises.</p><p> </p><p>“S-Sorry…” she wiped at her eyes furiously with her free hand, still holding Anne’s against her cheek with the other. Just beneath those sunken eyes. “Sorry Anne It’s just… there’s so much-”</p><p> </p><p>“Shhhh…” Anne feels proud of herself for managing to force her mouth to contort in such a way. “Late… er….” </p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s eyelashes tickle when she blinks. Anne brushes her thumb against the soft sagging flesh beneath her left eye. </p><p> </p><p>“You… need… sleep…”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s eyes flutter once again, and then her mouth pulls upward into a smile that could melt the arctic. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah…” she breathes. Her thumb strokes over the back of her hand, smile still somehow in place. “Yeah… that’s fair…”</p><p> </p><p>Anne wants to laugh, but all she manages is a shaky exhale. Marcy smiles like she gets it, though, so that’s at least something.</p><p> </p><p>It’s something.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Player Two: Friend or Foe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🗡️~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha feels sick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, not sick, that doesn’t even begin to encompass the heavy, sticky, disgusting pressure she can feel pressing against her insides. It feels like she’s been filled with pond-scum. She’s sick, disgusting, wrong, evil-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s vile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha had never been the smart one, that was Marcy’s job, and she’d never been the intuitive one, that was Anne’s job. She’d always been the leader. The planner. The one who had all of her shit together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now she can’t help but wish for even a modicum of Marcy’s intelligence, just a morsel of Anne’s self-awareness. Anything that can tell her what the hell she’s supposed to do now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because she honestly doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha had returned to Grime’s camp, though she doesn’t remember how, and she’d somehow managed to shed all of her armour and change into nightclothes without any input from her mental facilities. It hadn’t been until the following morning that her brain finally caught up with her body and by that point, she was already mechanically shoving food down her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she remembered the sound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, her breakfast had not remained in her stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither had her dinner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did she even eat dinner?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t remember.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All she knows is that she had heaved until there was nothing left to expel. Until her skin had gone slick with sweat and bile stained her lips with a sour taste. Toads run around her, some shouting, some making noises of disgust, some even voicing murmurs of concern, but she could make out none of them. All she could hear was the echo of flesh being torn by steel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wet thump that it made when it hit the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The scream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She spits bile from her lips, nothing left in her stomach to expel, and sinks backwards onto her haunches. Every breath is a battle she barely manages to win. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pressure lands on her shoulder, but she doesn’t have the presence of mind to look up and acknowledge it. The pressure gently shakes her and, upon receiving no response, starts to grow in intensity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha can see, her eyes are taking in information, but it isn’t processing. The faces of toads, the colour of the ground, the surrounding vegetation near the camp, even the tents pitched in every conceivable location, none of them register. They’re there, Sasha can see them, but it’s like her eyes have just shut off, the connection cut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The jostling isn’t helping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something escapes her, it might’ve been a sob, might’ve been a last little trickle of vomit, either way, her hands won’t come up to wipe it away. Won’t move to hide her face. The shaking stops, apparently whoever was doing it either got tired or gave up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand waves in front of her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tries to focus on it, tries to force her body back into some semblance of order.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But no.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something collides with the side of her face and she goes toppling over, slamming back down into her body at a blinding speed. Her cheek is sore, her face feels wet, and there is a distinct ringing noise in her ear that she’s certain wasn’t there a second ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Above her, Grime stands, face pulled downwards in his signature expression of displeasure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?!” she growls, eloquent, and receives something between a sneer and genuine concern. Something tastes like iron in her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I tried calling your name…” Grime’s voice always sounds vaguely disappointed so it had taken a while for Sasha to figure out how to read him-- he amphibian features hadn’t helped, certainly-- but she’d still managed. She knows what that slight lilt at the end of his sentence means, the unspoken question in the words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They have an audience.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to spit out the blood collecting in her cheek from where she’d bitten it. The red mixed with the green and she almost starts heaving again right then and there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She forces her eyes to focus back on Grime.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words sound so much more confident than they are. Of course, that’s how she always is, always has been. An actor, a mask, a front. She is never what she sounds like, never what she shows, because she cannot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cannot be weak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha is a protector, always has been, and when she isn’t protecting others, isn’t protecting those who need it, she is protecting herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or she had been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She can still hear the sound.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime’s eyes-- er-- eye stares her down, searching for something that she’d be hard-pressed to name. He knows what she went out to do the night before, and he probably knows what the result was even if she doesn’t remember telling him. She doesn’t know what he expects from her out of that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever he’s looking for he finds. A nod, barely little more than a tilt of his brow, shakes his head and he turns back to the assembled Toads. Orders are shouted, but Sasha doesn’t pay them any mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a trophy on Grime’s back.</span>
</p><p>___</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>~🦎~ </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s recovering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s slow going, but Marcy honestly didn’t expect anything less. The girl’s lost half an arm and they’re so far away from modern medical science that they had to cauterize the wound with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fire poker.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can still hear the scream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Anne </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>recovering. She’s yet to be conscious more than three hours at a time, but each time she wakes up she’s more and more lucid. That should be a good thing, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a good thing, but Marcy also knows what that means.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon she’s going to notice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon she’s going to remember.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy loves Anne, she does, but she also knows Anne better than she knows anything else. (Yes, that includes the Vagabondia Chronicles.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that the truth will break her. Recovering from a nearly fatal injury is one thing, recovering from a broken heart is another. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne always saw the best in people, the best in Sasha, even when she really shouldn’t have. The amount of times in Amphibia alone that Marcy had heard Anne talk about finding and reconciling with Sasha was staggering. Now that was no longer possible, or if it was by some strange, absurd miracle of fate, Marcy wasn’t so sure she would let it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In fact, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>that she couldn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a conscious decision, even if she was aware of it. It wasn’t even a decision, it was a fact that she felt so deeply within her bones she wouldn’t have been surprised to find it engraved there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would not let Sasha anywhere near Anne, not if it killed her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This was not an action that could be taken back, and Anne’s wonderful gentle heart would let it. She’d forgive it because she was Anne. Because she loved Sasha, just as she loved her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Marcy was never a creature of the heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stands vigil over Anne’s bed every night. She only has so many hours when she can be away from the guard, they’re preparing for what looks to be a full-scale invasion so she’s got her plate full, but what little she can spare is always spent here, watching as Anne dreams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wonders, from time to time, if Anne dreams of home. If she dreams of her parents, or maybe even of the three of them back in school, living their normal lives. Or maybe even her dreams are confined here. Maybe she spends her sleep running from giant arthropods with her slimy-skinned family at her heels, always just one little joke between certain death and living to flee another day. When Marcy does fall victim to sleep it is always dreamless, no energy left for that, and so she has no bearings of what Anne sees when she closes her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All Marcy can see is what’s already in front of her, fast asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creak of the door on its hinges rouses her from her musings and she slowly raises her head to find that of a pink-skinned frog peeking in. His hat is missing, leaving soft-looking ginger locks to cascade around his face. Some distant part of her wonders if frog-hair is also made of keratin or some sort of amphibian-equivalent, or why frogs evolved to have hair in the first place as seeing that humans’ is mostly kept for aesthetic purposes these days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig smiles sheepishly and closes the door quietly behind him. He crosses the floor on quiet feet before reaching her side and sinking down to sit on the floor beside her, back against Anne’s bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything new?” His voice is remarkably soft for the excitement that it can carry. Perhaps that’s because of the hour, maybe it’s because his partner in crime is currently silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy shakes her head, a frown pulling slightly at her lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She was up a few hours ago, kept asking about you and Polly…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For some reason, her voice sounds distant to her own ears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig nods, his gaze doesn’t quite seem to focus on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I missed it…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy shrugs. Anne’s bouts of wakefulness are few and far between, and almost always cut short by her straining herself too much. Truly, the girl’s stubbornness is something to be admired. Just the thought brings an exasperated smile to her face. So far she’s only managed four, two of which with Marcy alone, one with Hop-Pop, and one with both. None with Sprig yet, though, and Marcy can tell that the young frog is feeling agitated about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Antsy, perhaps, is the better word. He’s there almost as often as she is these days, a feat in of itself considering his inability to sit still for longer than ten minutes. He reminds her a lot of Anne in that respect, it’s easy to see why the two of them became friends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stirs slightly, and Marcy finds herself straightening in her seat, but her eyes don’t open. They flutter, and she gets a glimpse of the irises beneath flicking back and forth wildly, but she quickly settles back down, an incomprehensible mumble on her lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig pulls his knees to his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, neither of them speak, letting the companionable silence of Newtopia’s night-life buzz outside their window. Crickets sing in the distance, voices rumble and carry along hand-crafted stone walls. Someone is laughing, someone else is coughing, a snail beeps at another. The moon watches in silent judgement. It’s grown over the past week, nearly reaching its half-full state.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, Sprig speaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was she like?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question is not unexpected, in fact, she’s surprised he didn’t ask it sooner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who?” she asks still, even if she knows the answer. She has to be sure. Has to know why he wants to know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig looks up at her and, sure, he might be several years her junior, and he might be a completely different species, but his eyes show her that he is not dumb. He knows what game she’s playing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows why she’s playing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Her.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha was always a bitch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That seems to take him aback. A surprised laugh bubbles through his throat, half-way to a croak. Marcy can’t help but manage one herself. It feels good to finally say it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne’s always had too big of a heart for her own good,” for any of their good really. She forgave way too easily and always glossed over things in order to look for the good. Anne may have made a habit of protecting Marcy from her own obliviousness, but Sasha had made a habit of protecting Anne from hers. “She overlooked some of Sasha’s less… nice qualities because she was her friend. To be fair to her, I did too. Sasha… was never a nice person. She was manipulative and controlling, she always had to have the final say in everything, always had to win, always had to be the best, no matter what. And she always knew which buttons to push in order to make that happen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig stares at her, confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you guys hang out with her, then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy felt a weight settle in her chest. She could tell from his expression he was expecting the worse, waiting for her to list off years of blackmail or of Anne’s rose-coloured glasses that clouded her vision. He wanted her to give it to him, wanted her to make it easy for him to hate her, for him to choose and paint an enemy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because she was loyal.” That was it. The big, ugly truth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha might’ve been a prissy little prick, but she protected her own. Humans aren’t nice, Sprig,” she meant it with every fiber of her being, “you guys have your own conflicts here, but it’s nothing like the human world. Imagine if someone told you that you couldn’t be friends with them because your skin was red, or because your eyes were too wide, or because you were raised in a different place then them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig’s expression is frozen, confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The human world isn’t like Amphibia, it’s dangerous, but not because there are monsters hiding around every corner: because the monsters are wearing the same skin as you and it’s hard to tell which ones will bite and which ones can be tamed. Sasha knew what buttons to press to get us to fall in line, sure, but she also knew which ones to press to get everyone else to leave us alone. She was a bitch, but she was our bitch. She protected us, she looked out for us, and so we stuck with her in return…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She trails off, and the silence of the night rises once again to greet her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy hadn’t loved Sasha. Not like Anne had, not like she loved Anne in return. Anne and Marcy made sense. Anne and Sasha made sense. Sasha and Marcy?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That didn’t exist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, sure, they talked. They were civil, and they got along to a certain extent, but they didn’t connect like her and Anne did. Marcy could never quite put down the sour taste that Sasha’s brusque attitude left her with, and Sasha could only stomach so much of her rambles before she started to seriously consider ramming her head through a wall, but that was fine. As long as they had Anne to hold them together they’d get along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As long as Anne was there, Sasha would protect her too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As long as Anne was there, Marcy would help Sasha with her homework and let her cheat off of her during tests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As long as Anne was there, they’d work together in silent respect for the other, always there for Anne’s benefit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s how they ended up here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy had found the Calamity Box, she’d intended it as a gift for Anne’s birthday, but Sasha had other ideas.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now they were here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Amphibia has changed all of us…” she finds herself speaking once more. Sprig’s gaze, which had taken to silently contemplating the wall, suddenly snaps back to her. “I’d like to think that Anne and I have grown as people, matured somewhat, but Sasha…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was that weight again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha’s gotten worse. She knows what buttons to push, my sources say she’s got Grime under her thumb…” she would find the idea laughable, Sasha having a literal Warlord at her beck and call, but she’s seen what she’s capable of, proof lays less than a foot in front of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I fear it might be too late for her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a final time, silence follows her words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When Anne and I first met…” his voice is still soft, still timid with the air of someone who knows just what hour of the night it is, “she said some… pretty weird stuff about friendship.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. She would’ve… I’m afraid that Sasha and I probably weren’t the best examples.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig cocks his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you’re… you-” he spreads his arms in emphasis, “-you’re a good friend! You saved Anne from-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m the one who got us stuck here in the first place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig blinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy huffs, half a laugh, half a sob. God, she’s tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No one is perfect, Sprig. We all do things we regret. I care about Anne, sure, but that didn’t stop me from letting Sasha talk her into stealing the Calamity Box. That never stopped me from letting Sasha walk all over her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sprig holds her gaze, but this is not an argument she’s going to let him win. Every person has their regrets, hers will always be her passive nature. Her obliviousness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can only hope to correct it with her devotion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head snaps up only to find herself trapped in wide, frightened brown eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s awake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s holding her left arm in her right, half-risen to a sitting position.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...where’s my arm…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A person can hold so many regrets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy will make sure that Sasha lives to hold hers. To carry it on her back, on her <em>spine</em>, like the weight it will always be. She will make sure of it, she will force it onto her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This cannot be forgiven.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Recovery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🐸~</p><p>Sasha visits her.</p><p> </p><p>She thought it was a dream at first, and maybe it was. Maybe it still is. A comforting lie that her brain has conjured up in order to try and process some of the pain, some of the trauma that has befallen her. Maybe when she closes her eyes at night, Sasha’s is the name she calls for in her sleep because she knows that she’ll probably never get to say it again to her face in anything less than damnation.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe, just maybe, it isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Her first memory of it is hazy, to be fair, and she thinks it was still before she managed to penetrate that strange place she was in for those first two weeks of recovery. Not quite conscious, but definitely no longer asleep.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers a face, steely grey eyes, and the pressure of a hand on her cheek.</p><p> </p><p>A dream? Almost certainly.</p><p> </p><p>Except for one little detail:</p><p> </p><p>It happened again.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the pressure at her cheek and how her eyes had fluttered open. She remembers the frightened face she had found once they had.</p><p> </p><p>Her head hurt, her thoughts were fuzzy at best, and she felt as if she somehow managed to swallow an entire bag of sand. </p><p> </p><p>“Sash-” She’d barely gotten the first syllable out before the girl fled. </p><p> </p><p>Not left, fled. </p><p> </p><p>She spun so quickly on her heel that Anne feared she’d give herself whiplash, and tore- not out the door- but off the balcony before she could even process what to do about that.</p><p> </p><p>Anne waited with baited breath for the next half-hour, fruitlessly scanning the horizon for any sign, even a glimpse that would prove that what she had seen was real. That Sasha had actually been there.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing.</p><p> </p><p>And again, she would’ve written it off as her tired, traumatized brain playing tricks on her if it weren’t for that one crucial detail:</p><p> </p><p>It happened again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha kept coming back.</p><p> </p><p>The next few ‘visits’ were just like the first two: short and quiet, punctuated by her fleeing at the slightest sign that she might’ve been caught. She never spoke, never stayed longer than a few minutes at a time, and she always, always looked like hell.</p><p> </p><p>Honestly, she was giving Marcy a run for her money at this point.</p><p> </p><p>The ‘visits’ were inconsistent at first, they didn’t seem to follow any pattern other than always occurring at night, and always when Anne was alone. </p><p> </p><p>Marcy made a point to visit Anne at least once every two days, but as time went by and the city Knight Guard grew more and more busy her visits became shorter and earlier in the day. Eventually, she’d taken to just visiting Anne on her Lunch and Dinner breaks as that was the only time she wasn’t up to her neck in paperwork. </p><p> </p><p>The Plantars came by every day, but again those visits were kept to the light hours of the day and were always interspersed between the excessive doctors and physical therapist appointments that Anne was being forced to undergo.</p><p> </p><p>The night was the only time she was alone, and so the only times when Sasha visited.</p><p> </p><p>Always random, never consistent, sometimes she’d even visit multiple times in one night.</p><p> </p><p>Anne never told anyone about it. Oh, she probably should have, but she wasn’t doing any harm and on the off-chance that she was hallucinating the visits it wouldn’t have helped anyone to worry them with the details. They had enough going on at the moment, from what she heard from the few things Marcy had let slip during her visits it looked like the Newts and the Toads were gearing up for all-out war.</p><p> </p><p>Yeah, they had enough to worry about without a potential enemy-behind-lines situation.</p><p> </p><p>So Anne kept her mouth shut, her head bowed, and painted a smile on her face. She was getting better, she would get better if it killed her. It was all she could do, it was what everyone wanted and so she would do it. So what if Sasha was haunting her like a particularly flighty ghost? She’d already done her worst, what else could she possibly want?</p><p> </p><p>Her dead?</p><p> </p><p>She really, really hopes that wasn’t the case.</p><p> </p><p>But sometimes, when Sasha visits, Anne pretends to be asleep. Sometimes, she keeps her eyes closed and doesn’t move, even as she can hear Sasha’s rhythmic tapping of her boot against the linoleum floor.</p><p> </p><p>And sometimes, when the silence has pervaded her every thought, when the moon has almost reached its full-state, when the tapping has become nothing more than another part of the Newtopian night-life, she can hear something wet running down Sasha’s face.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes she thinks she can hear her sniffling.</p><p> </p><p>Anne keeps her eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Well Ms. Boonchuy, I believe I can safely say that your recovery is progressing nicely.” </p><p> </p><p>The Newt that acts as her doctor is a small fellow, he can’t be much taller than Hop-Pop. His skin is a cool blue and perched upon his nose is the single thickest pair of glasses that she has ever seen.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles at her from the other side of his clipboard.</p><p> </p><p>“We should be able to move forward with a prosthetic by the end of the week!” </p><p> </p><p>Anne offers her best smile and ignores the strange twisting feeling rising in her gut.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s great.”</p><p> </p><p>The Doctor beams at her. It’s always confused her as to how and why amphibians in this world have teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll have a talk with Lady Marcy next time she comes in about blueprints for one, I’m certain the metal-smiths will be thrilled at the challenge.”</p><p> </p><p>The twisting feeling in Anne’s gut gets worse.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t bother her with that, she’s already busy enough…” a nonchalant wave is made using her hand, though she doesn’t remember thinking to do that. Her smile remains in place and she forces a laugh, “I can just practice with an amphibian one until she gets some more free time!”</p><p> </p><p>The Doctor frowns and the twisting feeling contorts sharply.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know… I don’t believe our anatomy is similar enough for that, but you do make a point on Lady Marcy’s availability…” He hums with thought. “I should really have a talk with King Andrias about that, it can’t be good for her…”</p><p> </p><p>Anne shrugs, but internally she wants to scream her agreement.</p><p> </p><p>Last time she saw her Marcy’s skin was a pale colour she’d only seen in paint-sets before.</p><p> </p><p>The appointment wraps up with a few more exercises (mostly just stretching her arms in new and interesting ways) and some instructions to alert anyone should she start to feel light-headed or whatever. Honestly, Anne’s heard the spiel so many times at this point she could probably recite it in her sleep.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders if she does. She’s escorted back to her room and then left to her own devices.</p><p> </p><p>The energy drains out of her the moment the door closes.</p><p> </p><p>They took off her bandages three days ago, she still can’t bring herself to look at it. Marcy had spent all of her last visit holding it, as if she was trying to remind herself it was real. The sensation of fingers running against the places where they’d grafted skin over itself wasn’t something that she thinks she’ll ever get used to. It wasn’t unpleasant, not necessarily, just strange.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Does it still hurt?” </em>Sprig had asked her that morning.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Not really,” </em> she’d answered, <em> “it doesn’t really feel like anything.” </em></p><p> </p><p>It throbs.</p><p> </p><p>Aches.</p><p> </p><p>Prickles.</p><p> </p><p>But there’s nothing there, no hand to throb, to ache, to prickle.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches down with her remaining hand and closes it around the stump.</p><p> </p><p>She’d gotten lucky, the doctors said, the cut was low enough that they could save the majority of her wrist-muscles. Once she got a prosthetic they predicted she’d be able to use it for most things, writing not included.</p><p> </p><p>Learning to write with her right hand was going to be a pain.</p><p> </p><p>Everything was going to be a pain.</p><p> </p><p>Gosh, life was a pain.</p><p> </p><p>A sharp jolt ran down her spine and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to try and quell the sudden urge to cry.</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t cry, she refused. There was too much at stake, too much happening. She had to recover, had to get better, had to show Marcy and the Plantars that she was the same old Anne they’d always known. The same Anne who smiled in the face of adversity. The same Anne who would always be there for them with a cheerful smile and a supportive attitude.</p><p> </p><p>They were staring down the barrel of a gun right now, they couldn’t afford to deal with her grievances.</p><p> </p><p>She would get better, she had to. Time healed all wounds, and so she would just wait it out.</p><p> </p><p>She’d be okay.</p><p> </p><p>The taste of salt is a familiar one.</p><p> </p><p>A huff of air escapes her and he releases her stump in order to clap her hand against her eyes, wiping desperately at the moisture. It doesn’t stop the sobs from escaping, she can’t. It’s a horrible sound, she’d decided weeks ago, how it rattled in her chest and escaped her in a wet cough. She hates the sound, hates it with a passion, but try as she might she can’t make it stop, all she can do is wait it out.</p><p> </p><p>That’s all she can do.</p><p> </p><p>Wait.</p><p> </p><p>Wait for Marcy’s schedule to lighten so that she can actually talk to her, wait for the phantom pains to stop coming, wait for the Newts and Toads to decide if and when they’re going to attack each other, wait for the nightmares to stop happening, wait for metal to stop giving her heart attacks, wait for her body to recover enough blood that her legs stop shaking every time she walks more than a hundred steps, wait, wait, wait.</p><p> </p><p>All she can do is wait.</p><p> </p><p>She’s so tired of waiting.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, the sobs stop, the ache in her chest falls back into a dull throbbing rather than a sharp pain, the tears on her face and hand dry. The tingling in her lost-limb stops.</p><p> </p><p>The wait is over.</p><p> </p><p>For now.</p><p> </p><p>Anne lets out a sigh and slowly makes her way over to the balcony.</p><p> </p><p>The sun is setting, she must’ve been in that appointment longer than she thought. She missed Marcy’s dinner break.</p><p> </p><p>If she even had a dinner break today.</p><p> </p><p>Another sigh builds up in her chest and she forces herself to swallow it.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s a big girl, she can make her own decisions, her worrying after her will only result in more grief for the both of them. She already knows that Marcy’s going to lose her crap on her the moment she figures out just how much she’s been hiding from her.</p><p> </p><p>Faintly, her lips twitch.</p><p> </p><p>All things considered, it’s good to know that at least one of her friendships is still stable, it’s good to know that after everything Marcy still has her back. Even if she is killing herself to do it.</p><p> </p><p>The corners of her mouth fall once again.</p><p> </p><p>Her fist clenches.</p><p> </p><p>The muscles in her left arm try to mimic the motion and all she gets for her trouble is another dull ache.</p><p> </p><p>God, Marcy.</p><p> </p><p>Something about the way that Marcy looked in that ‘Ranger’ get up, something about the excitement that she got when she was explaining all the things she’d accomplished in her time in Newtopia, something about the way her eyes sparkled when she got a new idea.</p><p> </p><p>Something about Marcy had changed.</p><p> </p><p>And Anne’s feelings towards her had changed as well.</p><p> </p><p>As strange as it was to admit-- and even stranger to think about all things considered-- this most recent development had only succeeded in furthering her understanding in her relationship with Marcy. All horrible, scarring, stressful, traumatic experiences aside: Marcy was still there for her.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy was breaking her back, sacrificing her time, her sleep, her everything to make sure that Anne had the best possible chance of recovering, the best possible chance of getting to go home.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy very obviously cared for her in a... not just friendly capacity.</p><p> </p><p>And Anne… Anne was starting to think that maybe she did too.</p><p> </p><p>She just wasn't sure she was capable of dealing with that at the moment. There was so much, so very much, that she had to try and process, she didn’t really have the mental capacity to deal with growing feelings for the one person she knows still has her back.</p><p> </p><p>Well, not the only person, she has the Plantars, but the Plantars can’t come back to the human world with her.</p><p> </p><p><em>If</em> she gets back to the human world.</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s arms come up to cross over her chest, and her remaining hand loosens from its fist only to clench around her upper arm. </p><p> </p><p>That’s a thought she’s had to entertain a lot recently, even before this whole incident. Yes, theoretically, they have an idea of what they have to do to get home, but there are still so many complications in the way of that and even if they do somehow manage to do it…</p><p> </p><p>She’s not the same person who left.</p><p> </p><p>And she knows that Marcy isn’t either and Sasha…</p><p> </p><p>They’re not going to be able to act the same way when they get back, they are going to spend the rest of their lives carrying with them the scars of what they faced in Amphibia. Sure, some of the things she’s experienced she wouldn’t trade for the world, but others…</p><p> </p><p>She’s lost a hand.</p><p> </p><p>If they never leave Amphibia, Anne almost suspects she could carve out a somewhat normal life here. There are plenty of Frogs or Newts or (frog-forbid) Toads that carry similar injuries. This world would look at what remains of Anne and not even bat an eye, plenty of others wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Here, the only Odd thing about Anne is that she’s human, and even then, these past few months have shown her even that can be overlooked.</p><p> </p><p>Back home though?</p><p> </p><p>If it wasn’t the missing limb it’d be the nightmares, if it wasn’t that it’d be the sudden new-found taste for bugs, if it wasn’t that it’d be her newly acquired abilities in sword-fighting, if it wasn’t that…</p><p> </p><p>The list went on.</p><p> </p><p>Another sigh finally claws its way out of her throat and she sags against the balcony’s door frame.</p><p> </p><p>The sun has all but disappeared over the horizon, leaving stars and the glowing moon in its wake. It’s started to wane again.</p><p> </p><p>She’s been in recovery for a month now. A month. Two weeks unconscious, two weeks awake, and what does she have to show for it?</p><p> </p><p>The ability to stand, she supposes, consciousness, for another.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Anne freezes.</p><p> </p><p>There’s something moving against the wall below.</p><p> </p><p>No, not just moving, but moving upwards. Something is climbing the wall.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Someone.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>All of the blood in Anne’s body goes rushing down, away from her face. She feels dizzy from the force of it.</p><p> </p><p><em>She’s</em> coming, she’s climbing towards her…</p><p> </p><p>And Anne’s awake for once.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, carefully, Anne backs away from the doorframe. Not into the room, no, instead she presses herself against the opposite wall even as the rustling of vines on the outside of the building gets louder and louder. </p><p> </p><p>She’s not going to let her get away this time.</p><p> </p><p>Boots meet tile, a long, drawn-out sigh following soon after.</p><p> </p><p>Anne can feel the breath stilling inside of her throat. The city lights create a pool upon the linoleum floor, and in its multi-coloured light she can just make out the silhouette of a human girl, heaving from the exertion of the climb. It grows as she watches, boots clicking as their wearer approaches, steps soft and unsure.</p><p> </p><p>A head emerges, soft blonde hair has gone stringy from lack of bathing, dirt-stained cheeks and piercing grey eyes that glint in the shadows like the blade strapped to her waist. A warrior, a fighter, a champion, standing like her whole body is carved from steel. Like the Earth itself could crack open beneath her feet and she’d remain standing, strong and untouched.</p><p> </p><p>Her gaze narrows upon Anne’s bed, the bunched up covers making for a convincing double (she’s never been an elegant sleeper) before she finally lets her guard down. The tension seeps out of her shoulders, the shine of her metal-like eyes dims, and she can see the girl hidden beneath her paper-thin armour.</p><p> </p><p>She crosses the space between the door in the bed in five strides, and though her steps are sure Anne can see how they slow. Her hands come up to tremble, hovering over the covers like she isn’t quite sure if she’s allowed to touch them. </p><p> </p><p>They’re pale in the light, practically glowing.</p><p> </p><p>Like a ghost.</p><p> </p><p>Or a memory.</p><p> </p><p>Or, a dream.</p><p> </p><p>Anne can feel something dropping in her gut. What if-</p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>No, this isn’t a dream, and she isn’t going to let it be. This has to be real, has to be. Sasha has to be here. Because if she isn’t, if this is a dream, if there’s nothing there…</p><p> </p><p>Then there’s no hope left. Not for Sasha, not for her, and not for Marcy. Because if Sasha isn’t here then she’s never going to be, and if she isn’t then Anne will never be able to forgive herself for not being able to pull her from the dark, and if Anne doesn’t forgive herself she won’t get better and Marcy will drive herself into an early grave from the stress of trying to pick up the pieces.</p><p> </p><p>This has to be real.</p><p> </p><p>She has to believe that.</p><p> </p><p>She has to.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha drops her hands, not touching the covers, and a breath escapes her.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a coward…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Route B</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She can’t do it.</p><p>Her hand drops, and the weight returns.</p><p>“I’m a coward.”</p><p>“What else is new?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Me: I really don't think I can write Sasha's perspective. I just can't put myself in that headspace, I'm too empathetic...<br/>Me, 6000 words later: So that was a lie.</p><p>In all seriousness, this one is a bit of a doozy, so buckle up buttercups.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🗡️~</p><p>The first week had been a blur.</p><p> </p><p>That’s not to say that she didn’t remember any of it, or that she wasn’t aware of it. She did remember bits and pieces here and there, but they were hazy. Muffled. It felt like she was experiencing the world through a thick layer of molasses, unable to touch or feel anything without a buffer between it and herself.</p><p> </p><p>It was shock, she knew. Shock, and guilt, and maybe even a little bit of horror that she was even capable of doing what she had done.</p><p> </p><p>No one ever wants to think that they’re the bad guy. They want to believe that they’re just doing what they have to, that all of their actions have a greater purpose, that the ends justify the means. Justification is the enemy of growth.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha hadn’t needed to do what she did. She could not, and would not try to justify it.</p><p> </p><p>So, shock. Shock had invaded her senses and taken her hostage, leaving her as a prisoner in her own body, left to do nothing other than wallow in her own self-pity.</p><p> </p><p>Pathetic really.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha… will admit that she can be pretty short-sighted at times. The reason she’d been in the sewers in the first place, the reason she’d sought out Anne, had been to take her out of the game before things got too hectic. They had a disagreement, yes, but Sasha wasn’t heartless, nor was she stupid. This world wasn’t theirs and there would be no point in getting themselves wrapped up in whatever the hell Grime had going on. There was collateral damage and then there were avoidable casualties. At the very least, she could make sure that Anne didn’t end up as the latter, even if she wasn’t exactly thankful for it.</p><p> </p><p>But then her stupid, stupid ego had to get in the way. Her stupid big mouth just couldn’t stay shut.</p><p> </p><p>Anne had always been easy to rile up, she had a big heart and while getting her to stand down hadn’t been a problem in the past that little incident at the tower had been plenty of proof that her status as ‘best friend’ wasn’t going to be enough to smother the flames of Anne’s big heart. One little misplaced barb devolved into an argument, which devolved further into a full brown sword-fight.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha, with her stupid short-sighted tendencies, just had to get the last word in, just had to win. She always had to win.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> * </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne lunged, impaling the floor where Sasha’s foot would’ve been. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“</em>
  <em>I am done with you deciding who I get to value!” Her words were like hot oil, splashing over the sides of a pot and raining their burning droplets onto unprotected skin. Something like defeat, like desperation, clawed its way up Sasha’s throat in the face of it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne swung her weight, using the sword as leverage to get a good kick into her midsection, and knocking the air out of her lungs, “I am done letting you control my life out of some stupid fear of rejection!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She was choking on it, the taste of desperation, fear, and maybe a little bit of bile. She was losing, losing Anne, losing everything she’d worked for years to attain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I was trying to protect you!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne’s eyes flashed blue. A bright electric colour that forced the hairs on Sasha’s arms to stand at attention. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You were protecting yourself!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The words were a shout, but also a laugh, as if the very notion of protection was a joke. As if years of carefully placed barbs and strategically crafted friendships meant nothing. As if Sasha hadn’t spent her years watching Anne’s back just like Anne watched Marcy’s. As if Sasha hadn’t tolerated so many people, so many comments, so much stupidity just to guarantee Anne’s happiness. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She saw red. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Time froze. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Stupid.</p><p> </p><p>She had been stupid.</p><p> </p><p>She knew that the weapon she wielded wasn’t a toy. She knew that Anne could get under her skin. She knew that their little ‘game’ wasn’t really a game, that her actions had consequences and not all consequences could be smoothed over with an apology and a promise to do better.</p><p> </p><p>She knew.</p><p> </p><p>This world was a lot of things: gross, weird, impractical, and almost certainly seconds away from collapsing in on itself at any given point in time, but Anne cared about it.</p><p> </p><p>Of course she did, Anne always cared. She was a creature of the heart after all.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha had never been a creature of the heart. She was barely even a creature of the mind.</p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t to say that she didn’t care about anyone or had an incapability to love-- her nigh-unshakable loyalty to Anne was proof enough of that-- but Sasha had known from a very young age that she saw the world much differently than everyone else around her.</p><p> </p><p>Relationships are like cords (strings, ropes, whatever you want to call them). They wind around one person and tied them to another, and another. So on and so forth. The entire world was full of those ties, so many that they wrapped, not only around the people connected to each end but also each other. Until they’d spun themselves up into a spiderweb of complicated emotions, loyalties, and attachments. </p><p> </p><p>Sasha had learned, at a very young age, how to tug on the cords.</p><p> </p><p>Like a spider sitting upon her web, she learned to wait and listen. How to pull and when to do it in order to ensure the best outcome. Everyone cares about someone, and new strings are much too easy to create. Just a few words said in a sympathetic tone, just an appeasing smile, just an indulgent laugh, and presto: she’d add another cord to her collection.</p><p> </p><p>And she’d created quite the collection.</p><p> </p><p>Back home she knew the names and faces of every person in that school, in that town. She knew when to smile when to laugh, when to bow out and when to stand tall. She’d gotten every single one of those cords wrapped around her fingers, dancing as she pulled and tugged like she was playing with a cat’s cradle. A puppet-master in disguise, she’d thought herself invincible.</p><p> </p><p>But she’d miscalculated.</p><p> </p><p>She’d wrapped all of the cords around her hands so that she could tug on them, and they could not tug her back, they did not have enough traction to do so.</p><p> </p><p>All but one.</p><p> </p><p>She’d met Anne when she was so young that she couldn’t even remember how. So young that she hadn’t yet learned how to manipulate the cords, and so that string had been cast, outwards and upwards, to rest directly over Sasha’s heart.</p><p> </p><p>It was secure, and Sasha had learned how to tug on that one just as much as the others, but she’d also learned that one… that one could tug her back.</p><p> </p><p>The first time it’d really hit her that Anne held a much different place in her life than others had been when they were seven. Anne had come to her crying, saying that some brat with red hair had made fun of her because her lunch ‘looked like dog poop’. </p><p> </p><p>Sasha knew who the red-haired brat had been, and she’d known that starting anything up about it would lead to more consequences down the road. If Anne had been any other cord she could’ve laughed it off. Could’ve encouraged Anne to take care of it herself and kept her hands clean.</p><p> </p><p>But Anne wasn’t any other cord. It had felt physical then, and it still did now. Like there really was a rope tied around her heart, and those big brown eyes, looking up at her through her tears, had wrenched it tight.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha always knew what words to say, always knew how to win. The world was a game that one could easily win, all they had to do was pull the correct cords. </p><p> </p><p>Anne’s cord… was a complication, but one that she handled with grace. All she had to do was make sure that Anne was always right beside her, always with her, and that cord would never tug back. All she had to do was keep her on a leash, keep her close and safe, and she wouldn’t have to deal with that pull. That vulnerability.</p><p> </p><p>For a while that had worked.</p><p> </p><p>It still tugged occasionally, but usually, all she had to do was put on her stern face and it would stop. Anne was just as tied to her as she was.</p><p> </p><p>Then the tower happened.</p><p> </p><p>She’d never felt a cord pull that tight before.</p><p> </p><p>She thought it was going to snap and take her heart with it.</p><p> </p><p>That fight had been a wake-up call in a lot of ways, but the one that had stuck with her was that no matter how she tried to pull back, tried to wrestle back control, Anne had stood tall. She’d planted her feet, looked her dead in the eyes, and refused to budge. It had been like trying to play tug-of-war with a brick wall. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Stamp this out. Make her yield. Fail, and nothing will ever be the same.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She’d failed.</p><p> </p><p>But the cord didn’t snap.</p><p> </p><p>Anne had caught her. After everything, after the fight, after she’d nearly slashed her little froggy friend in half, she’d caught her. She’d held onto her with everything she had, stared down at her as they held on from certain death by the skin of her toes and promised that they’d be okay.</p><p> </p><p>The cord didn’t snap.</p><p> </p><p>But it moved.</p><p> </p><p>Not to her hand, no that would’ve been much too convenient. No. It wrapped around her neck.</p><p> </p><p>Like a leash.</p><p> </p><p>Or a noose.</p><p> </p><p>She’d fallen, she’d survived, and she’d stewed over her loss for months. </p><p> </p><p>She had run into Newtopia to get Anne out of the line of fire, yes, but also to try and rectify her mistake. Maybe things would never be the same, but that didn’t mean that they had to get worse. She doubted they could get worse.</p><p> </p><p>But she couldn’t pull on Anne’s cord anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Anne, though, could pull on hers.</p><p> </p><p>Things couldn’t get worse, she’d thought.</p><p> </p><p>Then she’d swung her sword.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Sasha felt the blur, the blanket of muffling shock that had been covering her every action fall away. It slips off her shoulders and down her back like water from a faucet.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been months since she’d last bathed.</p><p> </p><p>A pain, something like a ball of lead, lands in the pit of her stomach and, absently, she feels herself lift her hand to rest against it.</p><p> </p><p>Then she blinks because the ground beyond her hand isn’t dirt.</p><p> </p><p>Or canvas.</p><p> </p><p>It’s stone.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha raises her gaze from her feet and feels every drop of blood in her body go rushing towards her toes.</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s sleeping face is less than a foot away from her own. Laid in a bed meant for Newts much larger than her. She looks small. Tiny. Like a doll, with her limbs a pallid colour that, in the moon’s crimson glow, has her blending into the bedsheets. Her hair hangs around her face, a halo of curls that months of neglect have turned into a messy afro that she has to resist the urge to bury her fingers in.</p><p> </p><p>Panic rises in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>She stumbles back, eyes wide, and flicking around the room for some sort of explanation as to where she is and how she got there.</p><p> </p><p>Is this a dream? A nightmare? Some sort of horrific purgatory she’s managed to land herself in for payment of her sins?</p><p> </p><p>No, it's a Newtopian hospital, with clean, barren tan walls and large open windows that show the cityscape below. An open balcony allows for the moon to shine through, it’s crimson rays staining a portrait across the floor that makes what little there is in Sasha’s stomach turn. </p><p> </p><p>Some potted cattails dot the corners of the room, but for the most part, it is barren. The only furniture in it being Anne’s bed and an uncomfortable-looking metal armchair likely meant for visitors.</p><p> </p><p>A display like some strange archaic form of a heart monitor sits beside the bed. A rubber string of some sort is wound around Anne’s upper arm. An IV is placed into the wrist of the other.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s stomach drops as her eyes linger on her wrists.</p><p> </p><p>Wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Bandages are wound around the left. Tight and thick strips of gauze that seem to glow in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>Her left wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Her dominant hand is gone.</p><p> </p><p>Sick, Sasha feels sick. </p><p> </p><p>Sick, tainted, evil, gross, wrong-</p><p> </p><p>Vile.</p><p> </p><p>One shaking hand grows a mind of its own and reaches outwards as if to touch Anne’s still cheek.</p><p> </p><p>Her skin is cold.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha runs before she can throw up on Anne’s unconscious body.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>They’re in a war.</p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t be so easy to forget that fact, yet Sasha finds that it still manages to slip her mind more often than not. Perhaps it's because this isn’t her world, maybe it's because Grime does the heavy lifting when it comes to keeping the troops running a tight ship. She might be good at strategizing, that doesn’t mean that she knows how to run an army.</p><p> </p><p>Regardless, the fact remains:</p><p> </p><p>They’re in a war.</p><p> </p><p>And Sasha’s on the front lines.</p><p> </p><p>Once the blur has faded (or, rather, been forcibly ripped from her) she’s forced to face that reality with all the enthusiasm of a man facing the gallows. Training regiments are more rigorous than she remembers, patrols become twice as common and thrice as deadly, more and more newt scouts are caught and brought before her blade by the day. </p><p> </p><p>Grime watches her every move, though it isn’t a sensation that is new, it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha feels like she’s suffocating, drowning. Spinning and spiralling with no sight of land because every move she makes is met with shouting and blood.</p><p> </p><p>So much blood.</p><p> </p><p><em>It’s not human,</em> she tries to remind herself,<em> t</em><em><em>hey’r</em>e not humans. They’re just Amphibians, just animals,</em> <em>this isn’t her world.</em></p><p> </p><p>But the blood is still red.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still thick and sticky and takes forever to wash away.</p><p> </p><p>It stains her gloves until she can no longer wear them, gums up her sword so that she has to spend precious time cleaning, finds its way into places she’s never expecting it to be until she’s taking off her armour for the night and finds a patch of something wet and sticky clinging to the underside of her arm.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still blood.</p><p> </p><p>Just like the blood that stained the stone after she’d-</p><p> </p><p>Sasha had never had a weak stomach but she never keeps down much food anymore. Never gets anything more than a couple of hours of spotted sleep. Never quite manages to stop the shaking of her hands when she raises her sword.</p><p> </p><p>No one notices.</p><p> </p><p>Or, maybe, no one cares.</p><p> </p><p>This world isn’t her own.</p><p> </p><p>But it still affects her.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know why she goes back. Doesn’t know why she spends so much time learning the rotations of the Newtopian Knight Guard. Why she figures out how to dodge between street-carts as they’re checked rigorously for suspicious-looking cargo. Why she ducks beneath windows and underneath overpasses just to make sure that she’s never spotted.</p><p> </p><p>Why she doesn’t tell Grime any of the many weaknesses she’s found in Newtopia’s ‘increased defences’.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know why she sneaks her way back to that hospital room.</p><p> </p><p>But she knows that the suffocating pressure that has been building inside of her for the past few days is alleviated just the slightest once she’s in view. She knows that she can breathe again, even if the air tastes a bit too much like guilt for her liking.</p><p> </p><p>So she keeps going back. Keeps sneaking through the kingdom’s defences and dodging patrols of Newt guards who scan every wall like they’re looking for some sort of excuse to go on a rampage. </p><p> </p><p>She keeps visiting Anne.</p><p> </p><p>Just so she can breathe again.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been slacking.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha slowly lifts her head from where she’d been staring at her sword, a cloth clutched in one hand and a tin of lacquer in the other. </p><p> </p><p>Grime looks better than he did after Toad tower fell, but that isn’t saying much. He could have been wearing a flamingo onesie and he’d still look better. (The image of Grime in a Flamingo onesie might be one that she keeps for herself on bad days.) Regardless, he doesn’t look great. His brow is peppered with oil and grease from maintaining his own armour set, and a number of bandages cover bruises from their last sparring match.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s sure she looks much the same, plus some thick baggage under the eyes and an unhealthy tinge to her skin from malnourishment.</p><p> </p><p>She still can’t keep much down.</p><p> </p><p>One of her brows raises in the challenge clearly being presented to her.</p><p> </p><p>“Remind me again which one of us won our last sparring match?” </p><p> </p><p>Grime’s scowl lowers, which is akin to observing that the sun shines.</p><p> </p><p>“I am not referring to your training…” he grumbles and Sasha allows her brow to fall only so that she can school her expression into something resembling innocence.</p><p> </p><p>“Then you’re gonna have to be more specific, Grime-sie, because as far as I know all of my duties have been taken care of for today.” With that, she returns to guiding her cloth along the base of her blade. Something brown is caked near the rain guard and the fuller is absolutely filthy.</p><p> </p><p>Grime sighs that frustrated sigh of his that Sasha’s sure she can recite in her sleep at this point. One of his hands comes up to pinch the skin between his eyes, what she would call the bridge of his nose if he had one.</p><p> </p><p>“You look like hell…” he tries again and Sasha pauses, cloth hovering dangerously close to the edge of the blade.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>It would sound a lot more convincing if her voice wasn’t hoarse from the night terrors.</p><p> </p><p>Grime plucks the sword from her grip and she’s forced to look up at him or risk appearing disrespectful-- not that she really needs to worry about him thinking she doesn’t respect him, but Sasha is nothing if not socially conscious. If she does not give off the impression of bowing to Grime’s will then no one will.</p><p> </p><p>Lead by example, Anne had told her once.</p><p> </p><p>She feels queasy.</p><p> </p><p>“I may not know a lot about human anatomy, but I am certain that your eyes are not supposed to have that many veins or that much dark flesh beneath them.” </p><p> </p><p>Sasha suppresses the urge to scream.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, she reaches outwards and wraps her hand around the pommel of her sword, glaring Grime down with as much venom as she can muster.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m. Fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Grime’s good eye doesn’t blink.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s nails dig into the leather of the grip.</p><p> </p><p>“End of discussion-”</p><p> </p><p>It’s meant to be a snarl, something that he wouldn’t dare to intrude upon, but as the words leave her mouth she’s reminded of the last time she said it.</p><p> </p><p>A sword glinting in the crimson light, barbs traded back and forth like a tennis match gone wrong, the ground shaking beneath her feet, then the sensation of there being no ground at all. A hand in hers, clutching tight despite how much easier it would be to let her fall, to save herself.</p><p> </p><p>How she had to be the one to let go.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s breath leaves her in a gasp as Grime wrenches the sword from her grasp. Whatever balance she had is gone and she goes tumbling forwards to land with her face in the dirt. A pressure lands between her shoulder blades before she can scramble her way back up and a voice hisses above her.</p><p> </p><p>“I am no expert on emotions, but you have proven yourself adept in the past, as well as worthy of my sympathies. So know when I give you this advice it is with my deepest sincerity: pull yourself together.”</p><p> </p><p>The pressure disappears only for another to grab her by the shoulders and tug her to her feet. She’s taller than Grim but she doesn’t doubt that he could easily toss her across the camp.</p><p> </p><p>His good eye glints a green hue.</p><p> </p><p>Ice shoots up Sasha’s back.</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t a game, Sasha. This is war.”</p><p> </p><p>He releases her and retreats. Unaware of the breath he has stolen from her lungs.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Her hands are sticky. Her arms are sticky. Her chest is sticky. Her face is sticky.</p><p> </p><p>Everything is sticky.</p><p> </p><p>Her mouth tastes like iron.</p><p> </p><p>Everything smells like blood.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “This is not a game.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Nothing will ever be the same.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I am done with you deciding what I can and can’t do! I am done with you deciding who I get to value! I am done letting you control my life out of some stupid fear of rejection!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>I was trying to protect you-</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You were protecting yourself!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Steel rips through flesh.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha wakes up with a name on her lips and tears on her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>“How’s therapy going?”</p><p> </p><p><em> She’s </em>here.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha presses herself against the wall, trying to suppress the sudden urge to curl into a ball and scream. It feels like her heart is trying to make a frantic escape from her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” Anne’s voice is just as cheerful as she remembers. Almost dismissive in its normalcy. “Doc says that we can take the bandages off by the end of the week, then it’s just a couple of days with the compression sleeve and I should be good for a prosthetic.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s great!” another voice squeaks, and Sasha can feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Soon you’ll be out and about, good as new!”</p><p> </p><p>“Not so fast, Sprig.” The first interrupts, not sounding terribly convinced. “How about the other arm? Any progress with that?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve.. started on writing..?” Anne offers, though the tone is sheepish. </p><p> </p><p>A sigh follows, heavy with something like exasperation but much more fond. </p><p> </p><p>“Anne-”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Mar-Mar! It’s just been a pretty hectic week and I’ve been really focusing on trying to get my strength back up. I’m sorry-”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t-” a sharp intake of breath. Then the slow release of it. She can hear a mattress dipping beneath the weight of someone sitting down. “Don’t apologize. Remember what we talked about?”</p><p> </p><p>She can practically hear Anne’s eye-roll.</p><p> </p><p>“That recovery is a process- yeah, yeah, whatever. That doesn’t change the fact that-”</p><p> </p><p>“Your body has undergone some pretty significant changes in the past few weeks and is taking time to process that. Just like you should. There’s no need to rush.” </p><p> </p><p>There’s an intake of breath, likely because Anne’s about to argue again, but another voice interrupts, this one deeper than the other two and ragged from age.</p><p> </p><p>“Marcy’s right, Anne. You really shouldn’t be pushing yourself this much.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m </em> pushing <em> my </em>self?!” Anne cries, incredulous.</p><p> </p><p>“You lost nearly a third of your blood supply, that doesn’t replenish itself overnight. You’re lucky you didn’t die-” Anne cuts her off with a bitter laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> You </em>haven’t slept in weeks! You look like the walking dead!”</p><p> </p><p>“Girls-” The elderly frog, <em> Hop-Pop</em>, her brain supplies her with helpfully, pleads.</p><p> </p><p>“And <em>you </em>have been sleeping <em>for </em>weeks! Your body has to recover from that lack of activity! You can’t be trying to run a marathon after being in a coma!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Marathon?! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to stretch my legs-”</p><p> </p><p>“For two hours?!”</p><p> </p><p><em> “What the fuck Anne?” </em> the words leave her mouth in a hiss before she can stop them and she quickly claps a hand to her mouth, pressing her back against the wall and praying to all she holds dear that she’s somehow managed to remain undetected.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately for her, they’re too preoccupied with their arguing.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” the younger frog squeaks, “Anne’s already learned her lesson about lying about how she feels! Remember the mushroom incident.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a moment of silence that Sasha doesn’t know how to even begin interpreting.</p><p> </p><p>“If she says she’s feeling okay, she’s feeling okay. Right Anne?”</p><p> </p><p>Another beat of silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Mushroom incident?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne lets out a sigh that sounds somewhere between a laugh and a sob, but is quickly cut off.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, and you’re right Sprig. I’m feeling okay and I’ll tell you guys if that changes, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha can’t help herself and slowly she peeks around the doorframe. Anne has a hand planted on Sprig’s head and her left arm risen as if she were asking for a high-five. </p><p> </p><p>“Scout’s honour.”</p><p> </p><p><em> She </em>makes a face.</p><p> </p><p>“Does that really count if-”</p><p> </p><p>“I can still punch you with my stump, Marcy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t call it your ‘stump’.”</p><p> </p><p>“What else am I supposed to call it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your arm?”</p><p> </p><p>“I vote for stump!” A small wet blob of a thing jumps up from where it had been hiding behind the elderly frog and Sasha almost jumps out of her skin at the sight of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Stumpy!” the frog currently under Anne’s hand raises his fists in agreement. A smile pulls across Anne’s face and Sasha feels like someone has socked her in the gut.</p><p> </p><p>She looks so…</p><p> </p><p>Happy.</p><p> </p><p>Normal.</p><p> </p><p>Like nothing even happened.</p><p> </p><p>A beeping noise emits from somewhere, and <em>she </em>reaches down to pull out her phone from her pocket.</p><p> </p><p>“And that my cue.” Slowly <em> she </em>raises her gaze back up to Anne, “I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s smile drops like a stone.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that when your shift ends?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, that’s when my break is.” <em> She </em>shrugs her shoulders and her cloak moves much more than it should, like her shoulders are too thin to hold it up. Her back is to Sasha, but she can make out the thin, taut look her skin has taken. “I don’t get off until Friday morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne frowns. “Marcy-”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s been reports of something sneaking into town. We don’t know what or where they’ve been sneaking off to, and the Toads haven’t made a move in weeks. People are getting antsy and we can’t hold a martial presence forever.” </p><p> </p><p>A beat. Anne doesn’t look happy about it, but she doesn’t open her mouth to argue. <em> She </em>reaches out and gently tucks a couple of curls behind Anne’s ears. It’s been washed since she last was here.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be okay, I promise. I’ve handled worse.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne looks like she desperately wants to say something, but is holding herself back.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, <em> she </em>sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Plantars. I’ll escort you back to the hotel.”</p><p> </p><p>The second they leave, Anne deflates.</p><p> </p><p>No, not deflates.</p><p> </p><p>She disappears.</p><p> </p><p>Anne as she knew her, as she has always known her, is gone. The Anne who had just been in place, just as chipper and stubborn as always, falls away to be replaced by a girl whose entire body shakes with the strain of keeping herself upright. Whose eyes almost immediately spill over with tears. Whose hand comes up to press against the place where her other should be and clutches it tightly to her chest, a bitter laugh wracking her body.</p><p> </p><p>“Stumpy…” she whispers, and the tears slide down her face. “Frog help me.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha’s breath leaves her.</p><p> </p><p>She runs.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>“Report?”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha resists the urge to shuffle her feet. Instead, she plants them strong and forces her back up straight, she’s easily the tallest in the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Newts have upped their security yet again,” she begins, “A set of continuous patrols have been spotted along the city walls with no more than a minute between them. Incoming traffic has been completely halted, and the sewers have been completely sealed off for all but a few essential workers.”</p><p> </p><p>Grime grunts his disapproval.</p><p> </p><p>“An air assault?” Another lieutenant offers.</p><p> </p><p>He makes a noise, considering.</p><p> </p><p>“Not recommended,” Sasha remarks, “Newts are known for having some of the best archers in all of Amphibia.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what would you suggest?” Grime grumbles petulantly.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha purses her lips and tries not to think about who is currently inside the city walls. Tries not to remember the feeling of her sword cutting through flesh.</p><p> </p><p>“We could wait it out,” she suggests, cautious, “We’ve got them surrounded and all of this ‘upped security’ is taxing. They’re going to tire themselves out and, if we keep them on the defensive, they won’t be able to call for reinforcements or supplies. We’re already half-way to a siege...”</p><p> </p><p>“And what of our own?” A different toad barks, his face screwed up in distaste. Normally, Sasha would be looking for a way to exploit that, or to make it vanish altogether. Now, she can barely muster the energy to care. “Captain, we’ve been out here for months and nothing has changed! We are tired, undersupplied, and underfunded. If we do not make a move soon you won’t have an army to move!”</p><p> </p><p>Grime raises a hand.</p><p> </p><p>A beat of silence, Sasha coughs awkwardly.</p><p> </p><p>“We could kill two birds with one stone?” he suggests, “take out the closest settlements and replenish our supplies, while also killing Newtopia’s closest trading partners?”</p><p> </p><p>Some of the tension leaks from her body. That gives her some time. Wait, why does she need time?</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll prepare a couple scouting parties,” another lieutenant offers. Grime nods, expression thoughtful.</p><p> </p><p>“Sasha, go with them.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha blinks. Something like ice fills her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the smallest and most light-footed of us, you’re the best choice for scout...”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a logical argument, but not the one he really wants to make. She can tell by the way he trails off, the tilt of his brow.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to talk.</p><p> </p><p>Alone.</p><p> </p><p>She forces her spine to straighten once more and clears her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Captain Grime.”</p><p> </p><p>The meeting continues for another thirty minutes. Lieutenants giving reports, maps being drawn, notes being taken, but Sasha can only bring herself to pay half of her attention. If she goes on the scouting mission who knows what could happen in her absence? Grime has never been a patient man and, though he probably understands the merit of her argument to wait, she doesn’t fully trust him not to abandon it the moment he sees an opportunity. And if he strikes while she’s gone…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who knows who could get caught in the crossfire. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She blinks.</p><p> </p><p>Who? What does she care if a certain family of frogs gets hurt? What does she care if Anne gets hurt, or… <em> she </em>gets hurt? They’ve chosen their side. They’re her enemies, and, yeah, maybe the very thought of either of them ending up with a sword through their abdomen or coming across their unmoving bodies sends a spike of fear so deeply through her it makes her nauseous at the very thought, but she had already made her choice. </p><p> </p><p>She made her choice.</p><p> </p><p>Then why does she keep going back?</p><p> </p><p>The meeting adjourns.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha presses herself against the side of the tent, waiting patiently as the gathered Toads slowly file their way out, grumbles and grunts passed between them like a sort of language that she hasn’t quite managed to decode. A few offer her smiles as they pass, and she offers her own, but it is reflex and nothing more. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, Grime is the only one left in the room.</p><p> </p><p>Silence is a word that cannot be said in a war camp. There is always something happening, always some training session or group of younger soldier goofing off somewhere. Silence doesn’t exist, even in the dead of night. </p><p> </p><p>But the weight of Grime’s gaze comes close to replicating it.</p><p> </p><p>“You want me on the scouting team?” She offers.</p><p> </p><p>Grime’s gaze narrows.</p><p> </p><p>“You haven’t taken my advice and so I am offering you an out.” The words are anticlimactic. Especially for what they imply.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha blinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p> </p><p>Grime shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Cut the crap, kid. I know you’ve been sneaking out, and I know where you’ve been going.”</p><p> </p><p>Ice. It’s taking over her veins, if she doesn’t do something fast it’s going to reach her heart.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t follow-”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a smart kid, Sasha, don’t make me have to spell it out for you.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a sharp intake of breath.</p><p> </p><p>She feels like the ground is shaking beneath her feet.</p><p> </p><p>“I… I’m not…”</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Grime sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“The girl-” he starts, but Sasha doesn’t want to hear him. </p><p> </p><p>She’s drowning again.</p><p> </p><p>“-is a liability. Until she’s been neutralized I can’t have you on the battlefield, you and I both know you wouldn’t have it in you to end it-”</p><p> </p><p>Her ears are buzzing.</p><p> </p><p>“-so it’s in your best interest to be as far from it as possible.” Grime rests a hand on her shoulder and Sasha slams back down into her body, not even realizing she had left it in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>His gaze is unwavering, his glare sure and determined.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s for your own good.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha wants to scream.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Grime is going to kill her.</p><p> </p><p>When Sasha sneaks out of camp that night she takes her sword with her.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>The climb up to the balcony is just as she remembers it. Every handhold, every vine, every movement. She’s done this so many times it feels more familiar than sleeping does these days.</p><p> </p><p>She makes it to the top before she even has time to try and figure out what she’s doing.</p><p> </p><p>What <em>is</em> she doing?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Grime is going to kill her. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Is she here to stop him? To switch sides? Has she reached that point? Is she really going to turn her back on everything she has done, offer herself up to her enemies, make a different choice?</p><p> </p><p>Or is she here to save him the trouble?</p><p> </p><p>Grime was there for her after the Tower fell. He picked up her broken pieces and helped her put them back together, or at the very least helped her get somewhere where she could do the hard part. He saved her when she had given up on herself. She had already paid her pound of flesh for him, to stick with him. She had carved her allegiance in blood in the caverns beneath Newtopia.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha is a lot of things, but the only one of those things she can say without wanting to tear out her own throat is loyal.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha is loyal.</p><p> </p><p>Grime has earned her loyalty.</p><p> </p><p>But what about Anne?</p><p> </p><p>The night air tastes crisp on her tongue. The sun only set half an hour ago, but it already feels like it’s been dark for hours. Winter must be approaching.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How long have they been here? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>How long <em> have </em>they been here?</p><p> </p><p>Is she really considering her loyalty to a Toad over her loyalty to another human being?</p><p> </p><p>This was supposed to be-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>This is not a game.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>How many times has she heard someone say that?</p><p> </p><p>This isn’t a game.</p><p> </p><p>This is war.</p><p> </p><p>War is coming, and it will kill Anne. It will kill Anne and it will kill her too if she doesn’t pick a side.</p><p> </p><p>This might not be her world.</p><p> </p><p>But it is a world.</p><p> </p><p>And she has to draw her loyalties in the sand before it is too late.</p><p> </p><p>She sighs and enters the room, no matter how many times she sneaks in here there’s never been an increase in security. Either she’s sneakier than she thought, or someone has been covering for her.</p><p> </p><p>Or she just thinks that she’s dreaming.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha wishes she was.</p><p> </p><p>A mound of blankets sits on the bed and a breath that Sasha didn’t know she was holding escapes her.</p><p> </p><p>Anne has never been a graceful sleeper.</p><p> </p><p>She crosses the distance from the doorway to the bed in five steps, but as she reaches it she can feel a pressure growing in her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>What is she here for?</p><p> </p><p>Her sword feels heavy at her side.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers ghost over the pommel, lingering there for a little bit too long.</p><p> </p><p>Then they leave it.</p><p> </p><p>A weight disappears from her chest.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches out to grab the blankets, pull them back, and finally, finally look her in the face and tell her that she is sorry.</p><p> </p><p>Her hand freezes.</p><p> </p><p>She can’t do it.</p><p> </p><p>Her hand drops, and the weight returns.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a coward.”</p><p> </p><p>“What else is new?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Dialogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I changed my mind. Third person omnipresent it is. Anyways, thanks for being awesome readers and keeping me company on this. Here's to 5k reads!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I'm a coward.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What else is new?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha spins around so fast that wind ruffles the cattails against the walls. She looses her footing and goes stumbling back into the empty bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne! I-I…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne holds up her hands placatingly. Slowly, she emerges from the shadow of the doorway and in the light she looks remarkably normal. Almost like nothing has happened. The empty space where her left hand should be sends shivers up Sasha’s back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It's okay, I just want to talk…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha freezes like a deer caught in the headlights. Her eyes dart back and forth around the room, looking for an escape. Anne is between her and the door. She contemplates the window.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne steps forwards and Sasha’s eyes snap to her. Fear dilates her pupils and, almost absently, she begins pushing herself up onto the bed, backing away from Anne. Anne stops, noticing, and drags in a deep, calming breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay Sash, I’m not mad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha freezes. She doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. She freezes and stares at Anne like she’s been confronted by a ghost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re…</span>
  <em>
    <span> not mad?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne winces at the shout, then takes a hurried step backwards as Sasha shoots upwards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not mad?! Wh- I- you-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sash-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She advances on Anne.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you don’t get to call me that! You don’t get to stand there and say that you’re ‘not mad’. You don’t get to look me in the face with- with-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breathing comes in gasps, each faster and shallower than the last. Her entire body is shaking, trembling in the light, and as she takes another step her legs give out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne surges forwards to try and catch her, but Sasha shoves her off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t get to pity me…” it’s little more than a growl, “I cut off your arm. You don’t get to be nice to me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… Sash-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could’ve killed you!” Sasha shouts this before suddenly retracting. Her hands clap over her mouth. “I could’ve killed you… oh God, I could’ve killed you. Oh god… I-” she retches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, carefully, Anne stretches out a hand and finally manages to touch Sasha, even if it is only to pat her back as she attempts to throw up. A couple of strings of spit are all she gets out. Eventually the heaving ends, but Sasha’s skin has already gone clammy and cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s wheezing with every breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please…” she whispers, soft and fragile, “please just be mad at me. Please… please…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stares, wide eyed and stunned, as Sasha cries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hate me…” she’s not even looking at her, her eyes are screwed so tightly shut she doesn’t know how the tears manage to escape. “Please… please just be angry with me…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne looks like she wants to be sick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha… Sasha please just”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, violently, Sasha whirls on her and she can hear metal scraping on leather.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All of the warmth goes rushing out of the room. Somewhere, steel is scraping against steel and two pinpoints of crimson have arisen in the dark. Glistening like unfeeling pools of blood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then something metal is pressed into Anne’s remaining hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne snaps back to the present, and finds herself staring Sasha down. The moon is behind her and it paints her hair a rusted pink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Make it even,” Sasha hisses the words, little more than an escape of breath and, although her cheeks are wet with tears, her eyes are steel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She holds her hand up, and it trembles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne drops the sword.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Metal clangs against the linoleum floor and the sound alone would send Anne stumbling back. Would, but the girl on her hands and knees with her arm held out for the gallows already has her scrambling to her feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breath is tight in her lungs, like they're fit to burst. They creak against her ribs as, despite her best attempts, she just can't seem to exhale.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can barely breathe in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moon's light catches on the abandoned blade and this scene is so very, very familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha's hand slowly reaches down to grab the sword by it's grip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne screams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>~🦎~ </p><p>“Captain Marcy!”</p><p> </p><p>Miserably, Marcy drags her gaze up from where she was attempting to make sense of the several squiggles on a page that she thinks is supposed to be a report of some kind? She doesn’t know, and can’t find it within herself to care about it anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Everything hurts. Her joints ache, her eyes burn, her hands won’t stop shaking. Every breath makes her ribs creak and the light from the lanterns is enough to make her want to go lay down in a dark room for a couple of hours.</p><p> </p><p>But she has a job to do.</p><p> </p><p>This city is depending on her.</p><p> </p><p>Anne is depending on her.</p><p> </p><p>She has to be the rock right now because Anne can’t. She’s tired, not blind, and she knows when Anne’s putting up a front, no matter how convincing it is. No matter how good she’s gotten at hiding it.</p><p> </p><p>Anne isn’t ok.</p><p> </p><p>But she can’t do anything about it other than try her hardest to be the strong one.</p><p> </p><p>A blue blur is running towards her desk. </p><p> </p><p>That doesn’t seem right.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches up to press her fingers against her eyes and tries to rub them back into use. When she opens them again the world is still blurry and the blue thing has reached her. It doubles over, heaving for breath.</p><p> </p><p>She knows she’s had a stressful couple of days, but certainly not enough for this. Right?</p><p> </p><p>Whatever, she’ll just brush it off and pick up another cup of coffee from the breakroom. It’s been a couple of hours since her last one anyway.</p><p> </p><p>The mountain of empty cups where her trashcan once was begs to differ.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s the problem?” Her feet push her to a standing position and she forces herself to ignore how shaky the ground feels beneath her.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s- uh- Captain Marcy, are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Peachy.” She fumbles her way through the office, being careful not to step on the mounds of paperwork she knows are there, even if they look more like white smudges at the moment. Finding the door is a bit of an expedition, but not one that she hasn’t performed before.</p><p> </p><p>“I… will assume that is a human phrase-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine. Now, what’s got you so bananas?”</p><p> </p><p>The blur, who Marcy assumes is a newt that she should probably be able to recognise, mumbles something under their breath.</p><p> </p><p>She ignores it and instead trudges down the hallway. Muscle memory alone can tell her where the coffee machine is.</p><p> </p><p>“An intruder was discovered inside the city walls.”</p><p> </p><p>A hum makes its way through Marcy’s throat before she’s even fully processed the sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“I assume they’ve already been brought to the city prison?”</p><p> </p><p>“Affirmative.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, contemplative, and drops the old coffee filter into the trash.</p><p> </p><p>“What sector were they in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Twelve.”</p><p> </p><p>She begins pouring coffee grounds into the filter and feels her brows furrowing. Usually, the scent of coffee alone is enough to make her perk up just a bit, but right now she can’t even tell if her nose is working. Everything feels so heavy and exhausting. Twelve… twelve… where’s-</p><p> </p><p>“The hospital district?” She questions, and nearly loses her grip on the coffee grounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Affirmative.”</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, she raises her head to look the blue blur in the face, or at least what she assumes is its face. </p><p> </p><p>“Have they already been put through questioning?”</p><p> </p><p>“They are being interrogated as we speak.”</p><p> </p><p>A weight has dropped into Marcy’s gut and she doesn’t like it one bit.</p><p> </p><p>“Do we know what their target was?”</p><p> </p><p>“We… have an Idea…”</p><p> </p><p>“Lieutenant-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a Corporal-”</p><p> </p><p>“-close enough, don’t beat around the bush with me. I am on an incredibly tight schedule and I cannot afford to waste time on niceties. Why was this brought to me and not the Department of Inner-city Security?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a beat of silence, and Marcy takes the opportunity to finish making her pot of coffee and put it on to brew. She still can’t smell it. A pounding has started between her temples.</p><p> </p><p>“We have… reason to believe that the… intruder is a lieutenant within the Toad Army with considerable weight… King Andrias thinks it advisable to consider them as a bargaining chip.”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy frowns. Gosh, that voice is annoying.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s a discussion for the general, not me.”</p><p> </p><p>“He believes that you may be able to get this Lieutenant to… cooperate…”</p><p> </p><p>Now Marcy is really confused.</p><p> </p><p>Her neck aches.</p><p> </p><p>She drags in a breath and reaches up to press against the joint. The coffeemaker beeps and she fumbles for a cup for a couple of seconds before giving up and lifting the steaming pot to her lips. She barely feels it burn her lips and it slides down her throat without so much as a wince of protest.</p><p> </p><p>It tastes just like it smells.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never been good with people.”</p><p> </p><p>“Captain Marcy, how long have you been on shift?”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy blinks a few times and squints. She remembers clocking in. She had a lunch break about… how long ago was that? Has she seen Anne yet today?</p><p> </p><p>“Is today Friday?”</p><p> </p><p>Another beat of silence. Silence has never bothered Marcy, but she finds that usually people only give it to her when she gives them something they aren’t expecting. It usually doesn’t spell anything good for her.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s... Sunday…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Morning?”</p><p> </p><p>“...It’s Eight at night, Captain….”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Huh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She does a quick mental calculation. She clocked in at six, right after talking with Anne and the Plantars...</p><p> </p><p>“98 hours, not counting breaks.”</p><p> </p><p>“How… how long can humans go without sleep…?”</p><p> </p><p>She takes another gulp of coffee and mentally sifts through years worth of insomnia induced research sprees.</p><p> </p><p>“Currently undocumented, but I believe the record was 264 hours, or just over 11 days…”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh-”</p><p> </p><p>“-but most severe symptoms of sleep deprivation set in at the 36-hour mark. It is recommended for most individuals to get between 8-9 hours of sleep every 24 hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“Captain-!”</p><p> </p><p>“-After 48 hours the individual may begin to experience bouts of microsleep, an involuntary state of sleep that can last up to 30 seconds. After 72 hours, most individuals will be forced to fall asleep, as their body cannot stay awake without help. Hence,” she lifts the pot, “caffeine.”</p><p> </p><p>The newt stares at her with what she can only assume is mounting horror. She doesn’t care. She stopped feeling emotions at some point after the 48th-hour mark. Does this beat her record? 98 hours is only how long she’s been on shift, she was up before that. Another twelve hours at least… makes about 110 hours. Not quite. Ten more, then she’ll be there.</p><p> </p><p>“My apologies. My filter goes out the window after the first twenty-four hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“...noted…” the newt finally responds. They sound… she can’t tell. It isn’t a good sound though.</p><p> </p><p>Oh well.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, King Andy is gonna have to call for someone else. I’ve got, like, a minus two in charisma so I doubt I’ll be any help.”</p><p> </p><p>“... you… should really consider a break…”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy scowls.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re in a war Lieutenant-”</p><p> </p><p>“-Corporal-”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever,” She drains the rest of the pot of coffee in a couple of long gulps and brushes the back of her hand against her mouth. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”</p><p> </p><p>She about-faces and begins the trek back towards her office. After a moment, she hears the newt’s footsteps begin to follow.</p><p> </p><p>“Well... Captain… the, uh, King believes that you will have a… special interest in this lieutenant.”</p><p> </p><p>That voice is grating on her ears.</p><p> </p><p>“Just spit it out already! I’m not getting any younger.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the human.”</p><p> </p><p>She freezes. Her hand is on her doorknob.</p><p> </p><p>Did she…</p><p> </p><p>No. No, <em> she </em>wouldn’t be that stupid. This is a hallucination brought on from sleep deprivation. Not the first.</p><p> </p><p>“Could you repeat that?”</p><p> </p><p>“The… the human- er- the blonde human… she’s the one-”</p><p> </p><p>“You said she was in the hospital district?”</p><p> </p><p>“Y-Yes…?”</p><p> </p><p>“And you had an idea of her target?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, she was in Lady A-”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s crossbow arrow buries itself into the floorboards. </p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t meant to fire, but it’s hooked up to her wrist. If she clenches her fist in a certain way then…</p><p> </p><p>No matter.</p><p> </p><p>“Where is she?”</p><p> </p><p>“C-Captain..?”</p><p> </p><p>Wrong answer.</p><p> </p><p>She whirls around and grabs the Newt by their collar. She’s never been very muscled, but Amphibia has given her a lot of things and the ability to lift at least fifty pounds with each hand is the least of it.</p><p> </p><p>“Where. Is. She?”</p><p> </p><p>The gulp is audible and it sends all the hairs on her arms standing at attention.</p><p> </p><p>“C-Cell block twenty.”</p><p> </p><p>She drops the newt and begins her one-woman crusade towards the prison.</p><p> </p><p>She barely makes it five steps before the earth lurches beneath her unpleasantly. Her vision washes black and she falls forwards. Someone shouts, she doesn’t know who, and she tries to force her eyes to focus once more.</p><p> </p><p>But her arms won’t cooperate with her to reach up and massage her eyes. They won’t push against the ground, won’t let her pull herself back to her feet.</p><p> </p><p>She has to get up, she can’t really remember why, but the urgency has made a home within her chest and no amount of exhaustion will quell that. Her hands finally press against the ground and she tries to push.</p><p> </p><p>Pain pulsates through her skull and the world fades away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Dream Sequence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We've hit a turning point, boys. Besides, with all the drama of the last chapter, I figured you guys deserved a break.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🦎~ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh! I just don’t get it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne collapses against Marcy’s desk, flopping her head into her hands and nearly impaling herself with the blunt side of her pencil. Marcy resists the sudden urge to bury her fingers in the mop of brown hair now being presented to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Relax. It’s algebra, not rocket science-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy for you to say…” Anne grumbles against the wood before slowly lifting her head to settle Marcy with the saddest puppy-dog eyes she’s ever seen. “You can actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>rocket science.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She fixes her with a flat look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Figuring out how to launch a bottle into the stratosphere is not rocket science.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne just lets out a disgruntled groan before faceplanting back into the desk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t Asians supposed to be good at math?” another voice calls from the other side of the room and Marcy barely represses the urge to throw the closest object at it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t blondes supposed to be dumb?” she settles for instead, “actually, no, that checks out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere beneath a mound of pillows and blankets, a middle finger emerges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am a difgrafe to my fawiwy nawe!” Anne whines.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy offers her a sympathetic pat. Sasha lets out a huff that could be either amusement or exasperation. Honestly, either is about equally possible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Boonchuy, your family name doesn't have much grace to lose."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne finally lifts her head from the desk, but only so she can launch her pencil at her. The noise that follows is mildly offended.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy lets a chuckle bubble its way through her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, and with much more dramatic flair that is strictly necessary, Sasha rises from her resting place to peg both of them with a glare. Anne's pencil has found itself a home in her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pencil falls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corners of Sasha's mouth twitch upwards as she avidly fights to keep a straight face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy loses it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other two are quick to follow her into a fit of giggles and it is far from the first one that afternoon. Rarely do they get to hang out at Marcy's house. Usually, Sasha is shoe-horning them into more public and exciting places to hang out in, or Anne is cajoling them into a sleepover at the ridiculously large two-story house her parents own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy's house is smaller, not for any other reason than practicality, and as a result, holds a much different feel than Anne and Sasha's do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha's house is large, even larger than Anne's, and empty most of the time. Her parents work often and she's an only child so when they hang out at her place they usually have it all to themselves which, while it means they can scream all they want, also leaves Marcy feeling largely exposed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Conversely, Anne's house, despite its size, is full of people at all times. Her parents, her grandparents, her older brothers, are all there and all having their own lives. Anne's house is a kaleidoscope of noise and light and movement that sometimes makes Marcy feel like she's being smothered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her house, however, her house is just right. Part of that, she knows, is because it’s her home and she'll always feel safest in what is familiar, as such is being a human. The rest of it, though...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy is an only child, like Sasha, and her parents are the quieter kind of folk. As a result, they're often left to their own devices. Her house is small and full of trinkets, decorations, knick-knacks, thing-a-mo-bobs, just everything she and her parents have collected over the course of their lives. Marcy's room alone is half taken up by her bed and the ridiculous amount of pillows and blankets she'd collected over the years, and the other half is dedicated to her desk and bookshelf, both dotted with assorted memorabilia and house plants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy enjoys being surrounded, but both familiar things and familiar people. She likes it when they hang out at her place because it makes her room feel like a cosy little pocket of safety, where nothing can hurt her and time doesn’t really matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the giggles die out and Sasha wipes at her face, chasing away the laughter. She stands and stretches, letting out an assortment of pops and grunts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm gonna get a drink, y'all want anything."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sprite please!" Anne chirps as Marcy shakes her head fondly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're gonna rot your teeth out.." She admonishes. Anne merely pouts in her direction. Sasha ruffles her hair affectionately as she passes. Anne snaps her teeth after her jokingly and Marcy reaches up to flick her on the nose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Focus.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another of Anne’s signature pouts greets her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re being dramatic,” she points to the equation that Anne has spent the past ten minutes moaning about, “you just dropped the negative, see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of that solving the issue, Anne’s expression just drops further and her head quickly follows. The sound it makes against the desk is only mildly concerning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why am I! So! Dumb!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, each subsequent thump is a bit more concerning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Anne reels back for another she catches her face between her hands, squishing her cheeks together and forcing her to look up at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not dumb.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yesh I b’am-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Marcy resists the urge to roll her eyes, but only by the barest of margins. “You’re not. Math just isn’t your strongest suit-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne lets out a huff directly into her face and she screws up her nose in disgust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marshy, wib all due reshpeckt, fuff off.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy releases Anne’s face, only so she can press her hands against her chest dramatically.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did dear little Anna-banana, the purest creature on the face of the earth, just tell me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck off?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The closest pillow is cold when it lands on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy laughs so hard she falls the rest of the way to the floor on her own. Anne just continues whacking her with the pillow, eliciting more laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut! Up! You! Over! Grown! Toddler!” Each word is punctuated with another whack and by the time she finally finishes her rampage Marcy is little more than a wheezing puddle on the floor. Anne lets out an exasperated groan and flings her weapon back onto the bed. Her hands come back to rest on her hips as she glowers down. “I am just as capable of cursing as you are!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Marcy a full thirty seconds to collect herself enough for a reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard you say ‘shit’ one time and then you proceeded to wash your </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>mouth out with soap.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s face goes bright red and she leaps forwards to start whacking Marcy with her own hands this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy tries her best to catch Anne’s flailing limbs and just ends up in a strange game of tug-o-war mixed with wrestling. Multiple lego sets and old action-figures go crashing down from her desk as Anne and her attempt to force the other to surrender first. Marcy digs her fingers into Anne’s ribcage and earns herself a shriek for her trouble. Anne responds by kicking her legs wildly and kneeing Marcy in the stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I get in there and the two of you are making out, you both owe me twenty bucks!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy and Anne both freeze, realizing the position that the two of them are in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy, flat on her back, with her hands planted firmly on either side of Anne’s waist. Anne, one leg curled beneath her and on top of Marcy’s stomach, the other right beside Marcy’s left leg, hands balled into the fabric of Marcy’s hoodie, and face inches from Marcy’s own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a second they both just sit there, staring at each other with wide eyes. They’re so close that Marcy can see the pattern in Anne’s irises, how they’re lighter towards the centre and darken as they go outwards. She can even make out the freckle in her right eye she’d spent a week talking about after the optometrist told her it existed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then heat goes rushing through Marcy’s body at the speed of light and she’s scrambling backwards to put some much-needed distance between the two of them before her face somehow finds a way to catch fire. Unfortunately for her, Anne seems to have had the same idea and in the ensuing panic, the hands that were holding Anne up slip and she tumbles forwards, slamming her face into Marcy’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s more of a headbutt than a kiss, really. Especially considering the velocity at which Anne’s skull cracks against Marcy’s, but that doesn’t change the fact that both of them are thirteen-year-old girls who have never so much as held hands with another person romantically and for the barest of seconds, their lips do touch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Electricity goes crackling down Marcy’s spine and before she even knows what’s happening to her, her back is pressed against her bed frame and she has a hand pressed against her mouth. Across from her, Anne is looking similarly shocked, with a hand cupping her own mouth, and two very round eyes staring back at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment the room is deafeningly quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, slowly, the corners of Anne’s mouth curl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy can feel a pressure building within her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hand at Anne’s mouth trembles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A small exhale of air escapes Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne cracks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re laughing once more. Puddles on the ground cackling at each other’s expenses and clinging to each other with shaking, grasping hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Anne wheezes, “I didn’t mean to-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You asshole!” Marcy shoves her, “You stole my first kiss-!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne whacks her again, more lightly this time, but the two of them just can’t stop laughing for the life of them. Pretty soon they’re a tangle of limbs once more, but this time the positions are reversed. Anne’s looking up at her, flat on her back, cheeks flushed from lack of oxygen and embarrassment, and Marcy has her hands on either side of her face, holding herself up while the other girl tries to push her away. They’re both still laughing, but they’ve reached the point where laughter is little more than the shaking of shoulders, no air left to expel and so their smiles are silent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy isn’t sure if she leans down or Anne just stops pushing her away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s hands slide up from her shoulders to her neck and grasp each other behind her head. Marcy doesn’t have the muscles to hold herself aloft with the extra weight and so she goes down, but Anne just laughs. Marcy can’t help doing the same and sure, maybe they’re more pressing their teeth together than anything else, but that doesn’t stop Marcy’s heart from trying to escape her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy jerks upwards and nearly launches herself out of the bed she’s inexplicably found herself in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck?!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head is pounding, her limbs are aching, her nose feels like someone has filled it with toothpaste and then capped off her nostrils so it can’t escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels sick.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A groan fights it’s way through her throat, but she can’t quite get herself to sit still for it. Her body begs her to lay back down, but her heart is still throwing a fit inside of her chest and she feels like she should join it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the actual fuck was that?!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did she just-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where did that even-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marceline. Fucking. Wu.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>Shit</span>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There, not even two feet from her bed, sitting in an armchair that looks identical to the one she’s spent so many nights in, sits the very object of her confusion. Her arms are crossed, the left over the right, and the empty space where her left hand should be does nothing to stop the weight from dropping in Marcy’s stomach. Nor does it detract from the downright murderous expression being presented.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are so lucky I only have one hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks a couple of times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sting of a hand across her face is nearly blinding in its suddenness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ow!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“98 hours?! What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marcy!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the bright side, the slap seems to have unclogged her nose so she can actually breathe out of it. On the downside, Anne just slapped her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For an extended second, she stares at Anne confusedly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>98 hours? What did that have to do with-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You scared the hell out of me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In my defence…” she brings up a hand to rest against her still stinging cheek, “after the 48-hour mark I wasn’t really thinking straight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s eyes narrow and Marcy half expects her to slap her again. Then she’s rising from her seat and crossing the space between them in less than one stride. Her arms wrap around Marcy and, though she only has one hand to grab with, it clings to the back of her shirt and something warm starts fluttering around in her stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are so dumb,” she whispers the words in her ear like they’re a secret and Marcy tries her absolute hardest not to shiver. Instead, she lets her own arms rise and wind around Anne’s waist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On occasion…” she agrees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne laughs, and Marcy has always loved her laugh, but this laugh in particular nearly sends her careening out of her bed once again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne has laughed since her recovery. She has laughed and smiled and joked and gone through all of the motions that would convince anyone who didn’t know her that she was fine. Sasha had always been an excellent actress and she’d passed her tricks of the trade onto both Anne and Marcy where needed. But Marcy has always been able to see through Anne, and she knows when a smile is real and when it is fake. She knows that Anne’s real laugh is loud and boisterous and unapologetic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the first time she’s heard that laugh since Sasha-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sasha</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pleasant warmth that had overtaken Marcy’s face and chest fades, and with it goes her smile. The arms wrapped around Anne’s waist tighten just the smallest bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne pulls back. Not away, just enough that she can see Marcy’s face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean am </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay?” Her smile is a fragile thing and it melts the moment she sees her expression. Her left arm raises as if to flick her on the nose, but she stops when she realizes that there’s nothing there to flick with. She settles for bumping her with the bandages instead. “You’re the one who passed out from exhaustion.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the one hand, Anne is correct. Marcy did indeed pass out from exhaustion. On the other…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy slides her hands up Anne’s sides and cups her face between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Any sign of levity in Anne’s person disappears. Some of the color in her face goes too, along with her eyes. They fall to the space between them and Marcy feels something an awful lot like guilt rising in her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy…” she starts and Marcy can’t help but seize the opening her hesitance provides.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did she </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>you?” she asks again, more firmly this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne doesn’t answer her for a terrifying, deafening moment. Then she lets out a sigh and turns her face out of Marcy’s hold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not the person you should be concerned about right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s dodging the question. Marcy’s eyes flicker over Anne’s body, searching for any signs of an injury, but there are no bandages present. How long has shed been out?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy, you just woke up. You shouldn’t-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne.” Anne stops. When she looks up at Marcy her eyes are sad. “Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs and turns back to her. She’d never gotten up during the exchange, but the ability to touch her is only half as comforting as the ability to see her. Anne’s not as good of an actress as Sasha is, but her eyes are still her biggest flaw in the act. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Windows to the soul indeed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha’s been visiting me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s heart stops dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... what.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For the past… whatever. She’s been visiting me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy stares. Anne fidgets with the compression bandages on her left arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... why didn’t you say anything…” She had half-expected that to come out in a shout. An incredulous declaration, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the actual fuck, Anne?</span>
  </em>
  <span> But no, it’s soft and fragile and… </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Has she really been acting that distantly? That Anne didn’t even trust her to tell her when she was being visited by the person who cut off her hand?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne drags in a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were busy… hell, you’re still busy. Marcy, you’ve been unconscious for two days and the entire Newtopian Knight Guard has descended into chaos.” When she looks up at her, Anne’s lips tremble. Her eyes are wet. “King Andrias is calling me up for reports on your well-being every hour, on the hour, and all the doctors in the hospital have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off. You are so important and so vital to everything that’s going on in this kingdom and with the Toads sitting practically on our doorstep you didn’t even have time to sleep! Much less deal with what I thought were trauma-induced hallucinations and-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shhhh…” Marcy cuts her off, getting the idea, and wanting to stop the tidal wave of words before it devolves into hysterics. Tears have already started to spill down Anne’s cheeks and as the words get faster so too do Anne’s breaths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gently, she tugs Anne closer and presses her face against her shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not mad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Anne a couple of minutes to collect herself and Marcy does her best to remain as still as possible the whole time. Eventually, she pulls back again, still wiping tears away, but no longer shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but she never came armed so I thought…” a hiccup of a sob pushes through and Marcy wants to tug Anne back against her so much it hurts. “I thought I was just dreaming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy settles for stroking her thumb against the back of Anne’s hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You already had your plate full. You didn’t need to-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are what is most important to me, Anne.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s gaze snaps back up to meet hers and Marcy ignores the sudden swell of heat in her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not the Toads. Not Newtopia. Not King Andrias, or the Knight Guard, or even the damn Calamity box. You.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s eyes are wide. The whites nearly dwarfing the pupils and, well, Marcy isn’t entirely sure why, but she feels a bit lightheaded. It’s probably just lingering effects of the sleep deprivation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I am so sorry if I gave you the impression of anything otherwise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s another beat of extended silence and Marcy tries not to think about how sweaty her palms feel all of a sudden, or why her mouth is suddenly so dry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne just keeps staring at her. Her cheeks have taken on a darkening, flushed color. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did she say something wrong?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne shakes her head, blinking rapidly as if someone has poked her between the eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I just, uh, got lost there for a second.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was saying-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know!” her voice sounds dangerously close to a squeak. “I know! I heard! No, uh, no need to repeat that!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, now Marcy is just confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure? You look kinda-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne places her hand over Marcy’s mouth, effectively shutting her up. Her cheeks have taken on a violent shade of red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s another moment of stunned, confused silence, and then Anne clears her throat, dropping the hand over her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, Thank… thank you, Marce. That’s… that’s very sweet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A weight that Marcy hadn’t known was there lifts off of her shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re my best friend.” She offers with a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The expression that crosses Anne’s face is definitely not one. Before she can parse what that means though, Anne’s shaking her head once again. Something between and exasperation and fondness tugging a chuckle out to match.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, Sasha showed up again, but this time… this time I knew I wasn’t dreaming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s account of the encounter is… intense, to put it mildly. Marcy has always known that Anne had a gift when it came to interacting with other people, but she didn’t quite understand exactly what that meant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy knew how to read Anne, and it appeared that Anne knew how to read Sasha on an almost painful level of detail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She was scared… and hurt… and… I don’t think she was thinking all that clearly either.” Anne has started playing with her make-shift compression sleeve once again. “I’ve never seen her so… distraught. She was practically begging me to… to…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy rubs Anne’s shoulder sympathetically.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure she wasn’t acting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne casts a look at her that borders on disbelieving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know what Sasha’s crocodile tears look like, this wasn’t that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A part of Marcy wants to believe her. Wants to, needs to believe that somewhere in there Sasha actually does have a conscience, or a soul, or whatever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the larger part of her is screaming deception.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should go talk to her.” She makes to stand, but Anne’s already pushing her back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. You’ve done enough. What you need is to rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy, the captain of the Newtopian Knight Guard, slayer of the Barbariant Queen, champion of King Andrias himself, pouts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne I’m-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you say the word ‘fine’ even once, I will knock you out myself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her teeth click shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne nods, seemingly satisfied.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now I’m going to get you something to eat, and when I get back </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>are going to come up with a plan for when </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk to Sasha,” she narrows her gaze at her, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Together</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wisely, Marcy decides to keep her mouth shut.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Crime and Punishment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Me: ok, Christmas is coming up so I should do something light and-<br/>gremlin writer brain: miscommunications<br/>Me: -what-<br/>gremlin writer brain, gleefully: grief-induced-starvation<br/>Me: No!<br/>gremlin, vibrating from excitement: Trauma-induced-dissociation!<br/>Me: WHY?!</p><p>__</p><p>In all seriousness, be warned. This one is pretty heavy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~🐸~</p><p>When Marcy had been deemed fit to be discharged from the hospital and she’d managed to weasel out of her the location that Sasha was being kept at, Anne had expected a bit of resistance. A high-security prison wasn’t exactly a place you just let foreigners waltz around in willy nilly, especially not if they had a personal connection with one of the highest profile prisoners there.</p><p> </p><p>She had underestimated just how much political clout Marcy held.</p><p> </p><p>She’d known, on some deep, subconscious level, that Marcy had a lot of responsibility and, as such, would have the privileges associated with such a position.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know that Marcy outranked pretty much everybody but the king and council respectively.</p><p> </p><p>A carriage had taken them from the hospital to the prison in four minutes flat and upon reaching the place the carriage door was opened to a procession of guards two deep on all sides. </p><p> </p><p>The prison itself wasn’t a terribly remarkable building. It was tall, certainly, but carved from the same light grey stone much of the surrounding buildings were. The only indication that the building was anything other than another government one were the large double doors, each made of a thick-looking metal and with various chains and wenches on either side. It would take a team of six fully-grown newts on each side just to crank them open.</p><p> </p><p>A green newt stood at the doors, a nervous, yet polite, smile upon his sweat-soaked face. Marcy hardly even bat an eye at the spectacle and strode through them with all the confidence of someone born royal.</p><p> </p><p>“Master Marcy!” The newt calls, bowing low upon her approach. His eyes shifted over Marcy to briefly glance at Anne and he almost face-plants in an attempt to go lower. “And Lady Anne! To what do we owe the pleasure?!”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s posture is perfect. They’d always been about the same height, her, Marce, and Sash, but in recent years Sash had started to gain a couple inches on the two of them. You wouldn’t know that from Marcy’s posture now. She looked like a different person, tall and imposing. Nothing like the little girl who went on hour-long rants about her current favourite video game. When she looked down at the Newt her gaze was sharp, and her expression unyielding.</p><p> </p><p>“Captain Marcy will suffice.”</p><p> </p><p>The newt rises back to a standing position almost too quick to follow. His hands meet in front of him, wringing together nervously.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Captain Marcy. T-To What do we owe the pleasure?”</p><p> </p><p>“You have a prisoner that King Andrias wanted me to speak with.”</p><p> </p><p>The Newt’s eyes widen and quickly dart between Marcy and Anne, trepidation beginning to dawn.</p><p> </p><p>“I-I don’t believe that-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve already done the paperwork.” Her voice is clipped. Brittle. No emotion and little patience there to hear. Anne feels like she’s intruding on something she isn’t supposed to see. A side of Marcy she hadn’t known existed. She reaches into her cloak-- an item she had retrieved almost immediately after waking up-- and tugs out a wad of papers Anne had no idea she’d been carrying or when she’d had the time to do.</p><p> </p><p>The Newt takes the papers with shaking hands. Some sweat drips from his brow, down his face, and off of his chin. He barely even glances at them, before nodding his assent.</p><p> </p><p>“O-of course Mast- Captain Marcy.”</p><p> </p><p>He bows once more, nearly glancing their shoes with his nose, before turning aside and muttering a hurried order into one of the guard’s ears. As the doors are cranked open Anne can’t help but press herself a bit closer to Marcy’s side.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes quickly dart to her and she’s relieved they are the same dark charcoal she’d always known. </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Just like that the act is gone. Her face, once carved from stone, is soft once again, and her voice just as concerned and gentle as it has always been. </p><p> </p><p>It was… terrifying, to be honest. </p><p> </p><p>The shift from one persona to another, and going by the genuine curiosity on Marcy’s face, she hadn’t even known she’d done it. One of her brows rises, concern beginning to furrow her brow, and Anne bites on her bottom lip.</p><p> </p><p>“What was all that about?” She decides on. That question is safe, at least.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy just continues staring at her, confused, then glances back at the Newt who is busying himself with ruffling through a desk in a small alcove.</p><p> </p><p>“Before I started doing stuff for the Knight Guard I didn’t have a technical rank, but King Andrias had already granted me access to pretty much everything in the kingdom, so they started calling me ‘Master.’ I… uh… don’t think it’s very appropriate for me to keep using the title now that I have one of my own. Especially if we intend to get out of here eventually…”</p><p> </p><p>Anne blinks a couple times, confused.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Marcy’s face takes on a warm color and she reaches up to ruffle the back of her hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh… Newtopian court structure is pretty similar to, uh, British royalty and, uh, inheritance rights and… stuff…”</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s still lost.</p><p> </p><p>“O… kay?”</p><p> </p><p>More color takes up Marcy’s face and she glances around again. Once more, all of the Newts are currently occupied.</p><p> </p><p>“M-Master is the title usually given to the, uh… the head of house’s heir…” </p><p> </p><p>Anne takes a second to process that.</p><p> </p><p>“Are… are you a Princ-”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Marcy hisses, still plenty pink in the face, and spares one more glance to make sure they haven’t attracted any unwanted attention. Seeing no wayward glances, she focuses on Anne. “No. Not…. not technically…”</p><p> </p><p><em> That’s not a real no. </em> Anne thinks, but before she has time to voice that, the green-skinned Newt from earlier has reemerged. The doors are now open, exposing a long, winding hall of cells and grey-bricked walls. Every ten feet or so a guard stands at attention, a spear in their right hand and uniforms polished to a shine.</p><p> </p><p>The Newt clears his throat nervously.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’ll follow me, we’ll go to the locker room where you can deposit your weapons before I take you to the-”</p><p> </p><p>“Deposit my weapons?” Marcy cuts him off, and the mask has fallen over her face, any sign of the Marcy she knows is gone.</p><p> </p><p>One hand crosses over to rest against the crossbow mounted on the other.</p><p> </p><p>The Newt’s hands rise in surrender, his eyes wide, ringed with white.</p><p> </p><p>“I-It’s stand-standard protocol-!”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> She </em> is not a standard prisoner.” Marcy snaps. “And Lady Anne and I aren’t standard visitors…” she trails off and casts a meaningful glance at Anne’s left side. The newt visibly pales at the implication. “I don’t trust her in a room when I don’t have a weapon.”</p><p> </p><p>“There-There will be guards stationed just outside, Mast-”</p><p> </p><p>“And how can I trust they’ll be fast enough?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne doesn’t like the energy that Marcy is emitting. It feels dangerous and fragile, like the slightest provocation could easily shatter her brittle voice into something sharp enough to kill.</p><p> </p><p>“Our-we-we passed our last inspection with flying colours-”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re employed in Inner-City Security are you not?”</p><p> </p><p>The newt swallows, audibly.</p><p> </p><p>“Y-Yes, Mast- Capta-”</p><p> </p><p>“Then you’ll know that your department is currently under investigation after this latest incident.” Marcy sweeps her gaze over all the Newts in the room, forcing each to avert their gaze in shame. “I do not trust your inspections or your protocols. My weapons will remain on my person.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a beat of silence. A beat of challenge. Marcy stands tall and still, waiting to shoot down any argument.</p><p> </p><p>Anne carefully rests her hand on Marcy’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Marcy, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”</p><p> </p><p>The defensive posture deflates, replaced with a slightly betrayed look on her face.</p><p> </p><p>“But you know-”</p><p> </p><p>“I know what Sasha is capable of,” Anne finishes for her, “but I also know what you are. I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone in that room to have access to any kind of weapon.” She glances down at the Newt who still looks like the slightest breeze might send him running.</p><p> </p><p>“You have already searched her?” She asks, not unkindly.</p><p> </p><p>He visibly relaxes underneath her gaze and clears his throat before speaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Of-Of course. Other than the sword she had a dagger and two smaller hunting knives. All of them have been turned over to the Academy as evidence.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne nods and then casts her gaze back to Marcy, who still looks unsure.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be fine,” she assures.</p><p> </p><p>Marcy bites her lip and clenches her cloak between her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re sure…?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne nods.</p><p> </p><p>She sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine. Lead on.”</p><p>___</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>~🗡️~</p><p>She’s cold.</p><p> </p><p>They’d taken her weapons, her armour, her belt, her boots, and then left her in the cell with nothing but a tank-top and trousers.</p><p> </p><p>Winter is approaching.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cold.</p><p> </p><p>The walls are grey, a colour just a bit more on the blue side, and there are exactly 62 bricks from wall to wall. The entire cell consists of 19,210 bricks-- one wall taken up by the cell door and another sporting a small window she can just barely fit her fingers through-- she knows because she counted them herself.</p><p> </p><p>It’s big enough across it takes her five paces to reach each wall, but square in its shape. </p><p> </p><p>The cell door is ten rows high, with fifteen columns across. She can fit her hand through the bars, but only up to about mid-forearm.</p><p> </p><p>She’d gotten her hand stuck earlier trying to test that limit.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is, she doesn’t really know what she’s doing here. Is she a prisoner of war? A fugitive? She’s not technically a part of Amphibia, just loosely aligned with the Toads, and that’s up in the air right now…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What the hell is Grime thinking?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>As far as he knows she disappeared right after receiving a direct order to stay away from Newtopia.</p><p> </p><p>Does he think she’s betrayed him?</p><p> </p><p>Has she?</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cold.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps are coming down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>She’d received meals in the past few days, but hadn’t bothered trying to eat them. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down while she was at the camp, just because she’d had a change of scenery didn’t mean she’d suddenly be able to eat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne screamed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was loud and high, and rattled what little remained of Sasha’s sanity inside of her skull. She’d stumbled back, even as the door to the hospital room was all but ripped off of its hinges and the room was flooded with bodies. Someone was holding her back, pinning her down. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She didn’t care. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne hadn’t stopped screaming. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The footsteps stop in front of her cell and, if she wanted to, she could easily look up and see who it is.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at the adjacent wall, counting the bricks for the umpteenth time.</p><p> </p><p>“The guards will remain down the hall, just shout if you need anything.” The Warden tells her visitors and then the metallic door creaks open.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha closes her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>What does she look like, she wonders, now that she’s fallen so far from grace?</p><p> </p><p>Her skin is pale and thin, pulled taut over her bones from malnourishment. Her hair is stringy and unkempt from weeks of neglect and the elements. Her clothes, what little she has, are tattered. The trousers hang from her hips like the only thing keeping them up is spite alone, and the tank-top has worn so thin she can see her ribs through them. She’s covered in bruises, in scars, and knicks here and there from sparring sessions and assorted encounters living in Amphibia entails. </p><p> </p><p>She must look so…</p><p> </p><p>Small.</p><p> </p><p>Underwhelming.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Weak. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her hands ball into fists and the cell door is closed. She can hear her heart beating inside of her chest, the blood roaring through her ears. She feels like she’s going to burst.</p><p> </p><p>She’s so cold.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anne didn’t stop screaming. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>So very, very cold.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Not even as she was dragged away. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The breath in her lungs feels like ice. It burns when she exhales.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There was blood on her bandages, underneath her nails. It dropped to the floor and the crimson colour was so very, very familiar. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She can’t breathe in.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She couldn’t breathe. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She can’t breathe in.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She had been choking on her tears, on her sobs, she couldn’t breathe. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sasha punches the wall.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>CRACK.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>It hurts.</p><p> </p><p>She takes a breath. Her hand hurts, but she can breathe.</p><p> </p><p>Something hot runs down the back of her hand.</p><p> </p><p>It’s <em> sticky. </em></p><p> </p><p>Comforting, almost, in its familiarity. Even if it’s hers.</p><p> </p><p>A laugh pushes past her lips and she almost chokes on it. It tastes like smoke. God, has she really sunken to this level?</p><p> </p><p>“Sasha…?”</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, ever so miserably, she drags her gaze upwards to meet the very bane of her existence.</p><p> </p><p>She should’ve known she’d come.</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s expression is sad and she’s resting on her knees in front of her, hand resting on Sasha’s knee like she’s trying to comfort a crying child. Like she’s the one in power. Like she’s safe.</p><p> </p><p>Some sick, demented part of Sasha wants to grab that hand and wrench it back painfully just for having the <em> gall </em> to assume that she won’t hurt her.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the same part that had screamed at her. That had demanded that she make it even.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha feels nauseous, but she doesn’t have anything to throw up. She’s hardly been able to keep any water down.</p><p> </p><p>The blood on her knuckles is thick and her mouth has been dry for several hours now.</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s hand tightens slightly when she doesn’t get a response other than Sasha’s listless gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you hear me?” she asks, gentle.</p><p> </p><p>Everything about her is so painfully, agonizingly gentle. The curve of the bridge of her nose, the slope of her cheeks, the softness of her eyes. Her tongue darts out and licks her lips nervously and something an awful lot like want spikes through Sasha’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>Sasha feels the sudden and violent urge to scream.</p><p> </p><p><em> Of course. </em> <b> <em>That’s</em> </b> <em> why. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t be here,” she manages to choke out.</p><p> </p><p>Something, almost like relief, flashes over Anne’s face at her response, and she shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>“I-I had to check on you after-”</p><p> </p><p>“After I told you to make it even.” A beat of silence. Sasha revels in it. “You should’ve done it.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne stares at her, eyes wide with disbelief. Then she closes them, retracting her hand, and tugs in a deep, calming breath.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t mean that.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha wants to be insulted.</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” she insists. “I could’ve killed-”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” Anne cuts her off, rather abruptly, but her eyes are still shut. She takes another deep breath. “I… know…”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha waits for more explanation, but gets none. Eventually, she decides to take matters into her own hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Why am I here, Anne?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s eyes pry themselves open, if only to settle her with a somewhat confused look.</p><p> </p><p>“Am I a war prisoner?” she clarifies, “or am I just to be tried for aggravated assault? I’m not exactly a Newtopian citizen, though I’ll admit I’m not sure how Newtopian law works.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you should’ve brushed up on it before deciding to go to war with them,” another voice remarks dryly.</p><p> </p><p>All of the blood in Sasha’s veins turns to ice.</p><p> </p><p>She knows that voice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Twin green flames danced before her eyes, a shadow cast around them by the cloak pulled low over her attacker’s face. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>“You.”</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Her jaw is sore, but she snaps her head upwards despite it. <em> She </em>looks about the same she did last time she saw her. Skin pale and tired rings beneath her eyes, but there’s a quality to her face she doesn’t recognise. It’s sharper, harder, deadlier.</p><p> </p><p>Her boots give her a couple extra inches and the Newtopian Coral armour broadens her shoulders. When she looks down at Sasha she can’t help but feel so very, very small.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have any idea just how much shit you’re in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Marcy?!” Anne remarks, sounding mildly offended, and it would be funny if Sasha didn’t suddenly feel like she was going to find something to expel after all. </p><p> </p><p><em> She </em>spares a glance for Anne and her entire person softens for a split second. For a moment the girl that Sasha had known is back, the one she used to poke fun of for her clumsiness. Then her gaze snaps back to Sasha and any sliver of warmth is gone.</p><p> </p><p>“As a prisoner of War you are held as collateral, or a bargaining chip, as to be determined between your commanding officer and my King. It is in your best interest to be cooperative, otherwise I…” <em> she </em>trails off, and Sasha could swear her eyes flashed green for a second, “... can’t guarantee your safety.”</p><p> </p><p>“Marcy…” Anne remarks again, this time less of an exclamation and closer to an admonishment. </p><p> </p><p><em> Her </em>hands come up in a gesture like surrender, but her eyes are not in the motion. They bore into Sasha and pin her to the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Just stating facts.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne lets out an exasperated huff and reaches up as if to pinch her brow, only to find nothing to pinch with. She ends up lightly bonking herself between the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Not. Helping.” </p><p> </p><p>Vaguely, Sasha can feel her hands creeping closer together, but it feels distant. Everything feels distant, like she isn’t quite connected to her body.</p><p> </p><p>They’re arguing, she can see their mouths moving, she can hear the words, but they don’t have meaning. They wash over her, a tidal wave of senseless noise. Anne’s arms are moving, she’s gesticulating wildly. <em> She </em>is as still and emotionless as a mountain. Her dark eyes never leave Sasha.</p><p> </p><p>Her hand hurts, aches, stings.</p><p> </p><p>Her nails are digging into the ragged skin that tore when she punched the wall, pulling at the flesh and eliciting sparks of agony.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>The pain isn’t registering.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing is registering.</p><p> </p><p>It feels wrong.</p><p> </p><p>Why, why can’t she move? Why can’t she stop herself? Why can’t she say anything? Why can’t she apologize? Why can’t she <em> stop </em> fucking <em> pulling </em> her <em> hand </em>apart?!</p><p> </p><p>She’s breathing, but she didn’t tell herself to do it. Her nails are wet, but she can barely feel it.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like she’s been shoved back from her body, like there’s a screen between herself and the world. A passenger in her own body.</p><p> </p><p>Anne and her are still arguing, too caught up in it to notice that Sasha’s not there anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Where is she?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What’s happening? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What the fuck?! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her nails catch on something and, with much more effort than should be necessary, she manages to look down at her hand.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a mess of blood and torn flesh. The ragged edges of torn skin giving way to black-tipped veins. The tips of her fingers are stained with blood, some parts thicker than others, giving them a splotched effect. Something bloodsoaked is poking out of the flesh, her nails having unearthed it from the muscle and skin.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers trail against it, wiping away some of the blood.</p><p> </p><p>It’s white.</p><p> </p><p>It’s bone.</p><p> </p><p>Dimly, she’s aware that isn’t good.</p><p> </p><p>Dimly, she’s aware that she should probably stop poking at it.</p><p> </p><p>Dimly, she realizes that she’s probably severely hurt herself.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>“Sasha!” </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t feel real.</p><p> </p><p>A hand grabs hers by the wrist and wrenches it away from the other. A spike of pain shoots up her arm and she almost laughs because it feels so disconnected from her. It doesn’t feel real. Why doesn’t anything feel real? What’s wrong with her? What the actual fuck?</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s sitting in front of her again, her eyes wide and horrified. Pinpricks embedded deep within the whites.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?!”</p><p> </p><p>What is she doing?</p><p> </p><p>Her hand is in Anne’s, but she can’t move it.</p><p> </p><p>She can barely feel it. </p><p> </p><p>Anne’s talking to her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Say something. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> React! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anything! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just act like a person! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When she moves her mouth it feels like she’s operating a crane. Every movement, even the slightest motion takes so much concentration, so much awareness. She can feel her tongue raking across her teeth to produce the words.The breath as it glides out from her throat, hot and tasteless.</p><p> </p><p>“It hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne’s brow furrows and she glances at the hand that she’s holding. Revulsion flickers across her face at the sight of blood.</p><p> </p><p>“No shit.” <em> She </em>grumbles from somewhere over Anne’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Anne whips around to glare at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Marcy, this is serious.”</p><p> </p><p><em> She </em>raises her hands again.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not saying it’s not.”</p><p> </p><p>She takes a couple steps forwards until she’s just over Anne’s shoulder. She reaches for Sasha’s bleeding hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That hard and metal thing connected with her jaw once more and she was forced to become acquainted with the taste of Newtopia’s walls. Then a hand wrapped around her newly sore chin and yanked it back around. The fingers squeezed tight.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>All the muscles in her spine tense and she’s wrenching herself backwards. Adrenaline is sparking up and down her body with little regard to what she’s going to do with it. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and the adrenaline is there, but she can’t fucking do anything about it because she isn’t in her goddamned body.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“This is real life, Sasha!” Her voice shook with the volume, trembled beneath the weight of the rage she could feel pouring off of her in waves. The white-hot fury that seemed to just coax the intensity of those venomous eyes until they bore straight into Sasha’s soul. “Real- goddamn - life! This might not be our world, but it is a world, and there are real!" She lifted her and slammed her against the wall again, "Lives!" and again, "At stake!” and again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her hands come up to shield her face, but she didn’t tell them to do that.</p><p> </p><p>Her breath is coming in gasps that shiver and shake inside of her ribcage, but she isn’t making them do that.</p><p> </p><p>Her teeth are chattering and she can feel the impact as it rattles her eyes inside of her skull. Her hands are shaking and she can see the blood dripping down the back of the left and the fingers of her right, but she isn’t telling them to shake. She isn’t telling her body to do anything.</p><p> </p><p>She’s left sitting inside of it, screaming desperately for something, any sort of semblance of control, but there is none.</p><p> </p><p>All she can do is watch as her body curls into a ball and cries.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Separate Campaigns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year! Gosh, this is a big one. I'll be honest that when I started writing this I had absolutely no plan whatsoever, so everything and anything I had up until chapter... 5? was completely off the cuff. I have a plan now, even if it still feels like I'm making things up on the fly more often than not, but I just wanted to thank you guys for all sticking with me. I love you all. </p><p>Here's to 2021.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🦎~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcy had never been good at sitting still. It had frustrated her teachers and parents to no end. That no matter how many times she was reprimanded or reminded that she was supposed to be 'paying attention' or whatnot she just couldn't stop moving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being in Amphibia had not changed that fact, just how it manifested and how others commented on it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of bouncing her foot beneath her desk or gnawing her way through a pencil, she found herself biting the stems of quills or twirling a crossbow bolt between her fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or pacing a rivet into the floor, like she currently is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy would have to be both blind and heartless not to have been shaken by what she'd seen in Sasha's cell. Though she didn't exactly hold the other girl in high regard currently, that didn't mean she wanted her to... whatever she was now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She trembled, face tucked behind her knees so that the only evidence of her tears were the wet sounds of her struggling breath. Hands risen forwards and upwards, outstretched in a declaration of surrender, mindless of the blood staining them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please…” she whispered. “Please…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha wasn't okay, that much was clear. The thing was, Marcy wasn't sure if they could fix that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were teenagers. Teenagers in a fantasy world who struggled to deal with their own emotional failings, much less each other's. Much much less whatever the hell was going on with Sasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy turns sharply on her heel before marching another dozen paces and repeating the action.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After Sasha had torn her hand apart and then proceeded to curl into a shaking, sobbing ball and refused to acknowledge their presence, Anne and her had decided to give her some space... and a doctor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne, however, had taken that one step further. Upon exiting the cell she hadn't said a word, simply stood in silence until the doctor that Marcy had called for arrived. Then, without so much as a backwards glance, she'd followed him back to Sasha's cell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy would've been more concerned if she wasn't convinced that Sasha was more of a danger to herself at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound of her own voice startles her. She nearly jumps out of her own skin, clapping a hand to her mouth and stopping dead in her tracks. Her eyes close and a sigh leaves her tense body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In all of her time of knowing Sasha, she had never, ever, seen something like this. She knew that the nature of her and Sasha’s relationship meant that she wasn’t exactly privy to her more vulnerable moments, but as far as she’d known Sasha didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>vulnerable moments.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was the unconquerable mountain, with an ego twice as big as was advisable and a thick enough skin to match. She’d never seen her so much as wince before, much less break down in tears or tremble like a leaf in the wind. The closest she’d ever gotten was…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was when she’d cut off Anne’s hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn't remember most of what had happened after that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anger, nay, fury had washed down her spine and taken her body hostage. Left her nothing but a slave to the adrenaline. She knows that she’d attacked Sasha, that words had been exchanged, but the majority of the encounter remained a blur.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One that she didn’t really care to unravel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had gotten Anne out of there, that was all that mattered. If she’d said something cruel or hurt Sasha in the moment, well then she more than deserved it at the time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did that make her as bad as Sasha? That she’d let her emotions get the better of her and perhaps inflicted some serious and lasting damage as a result?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or had something else happened?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She starts pacing again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The records that she’d found in the palace hadn’t exactly painted a very flattering picture of the commander of the Toad army. Commander Grime was said to be a man with short stature and even shorter temper. While Sasha had a knack for navigating anything and everything social, even she had to have her limits.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was it possible that Commander Grime had taken Sasha’s actions… or perhaps he’d ordered them? It wasn’t like they knew what Sasha had been doing in the sewers in the first place, or why she’d targeted Anne in anything other than a personal grudge. Was it possible that Grime had cited Anne as a potential threat and ordered her elimination or capture? If that was the case, then Sasha’s failure to complete the mission could’ve resulted in some… strict… reprimands…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It would explain the reaction to her touch, the flinch and the tears. Not to mention account for the startling amount of scars and bruises she’d seen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A frown pulls at the corner of her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was plausible, perhaps even likely, but it didn’t account for everything. Last Anne had told her Sasha held a pretty high position in the Toad army, to the point that Grime had saved her from what probably would’ve been a fatal fall. Even if Sasha had failed her mission, if he’d gone through the trouble to save her before, why punish her now?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Occam's razor, perhaps? What was the simplest explanation for why someone like Sasha would suddenly become a weeping, shaking mess at the slightest touch?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trauma of some sort, of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question was, then, was the reaction reserved for Marcy alone, or not? If it was, then it had to do with whatever happened after she’d cut off Anne’s hand. If it wasn’t, then something else had happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods to herself. She’d have to test that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound of a door opening roused her from her musings. Anne slid through it, a troubled expression on her face and a furrow in her brow that looked far too comfortable there for someone who used to smile so often.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s pacing comes to an abrupt halt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is she okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the first thought that ran through her mind, but it somehow ends up being the one that escapes her. Anne’s expression quickly morphs to one of surprise when confronted by Marcy’s concerned one. Then, it sinks back into a troubled frown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The doctor says she’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t pick at it anymore,” she says the words robotically, like they’re an afterthought to whatever is racing through her head. “He’s instructing the guards to keep an eye on her and make sure her bandages are changed at least twice a day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy nods, but that only really partially answers her question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s calmed down, then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stares at her for a moment. Something in her expression is confused, though Marcy isn’t entirely sure why. Finally, after an extended moment of silence, she shakes her head, disbelieving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy... What the fuck?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks like she’s been struck between the eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?!” Anne repeats like that clarifies anything. When Marcy remains mystified, she lets out a sigh that sounds more like a trumpet blast. She spins on her foot and marches back to the door, clicking it shut with a bit more force than necessary, then whirls back on Marcy. Her arms spread for effect, “what the living hell is going on with you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uhm…” Marcy is still confused. What’s going on with her? “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne looks ready to pull her hair out, though she can’t decide if that's her own hair or Marcy’s. “This-this whole-” she waves her arms wildly, which is about how Marcy feels right now. “Weird-ass mood-swing thing you’ve got going on?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, now Marcy is really confused. She feels her head cocking to the side before she even thinks to do it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mood-swing?” she mutters, “And since when did you curse so much?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not important.” Anne waved off the second question, “What is important is the fact you go from being ‘lovable goofball I know’ to ‘heartless soldier I’ve never seen before’ at the drop of a hat. What the actual hell, Marcy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks, rapidly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stares at her like she’s just claimed not to know what the sun is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you serious?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s all the warning she gets before Anne advances on her and, more on instinct than anything else, she goes stumbling back. She barely gets three steps before Anne grabs her by the wrist and wrenches her forwards. She freezes, instinctually, and Anne takes the opportunity to reach into her cloak. Her hand re-emerges with a dagger and her expression could be described as disappointed, but not surprised.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For some reason that makes Marcy feel worse than anger would’ve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Remind me what you agreed to when we walked in here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sheepish, and more than a bit ashamed, Marcy bows her head. “Leaving my weapons in the locker room…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what is this?” Anne holds up the dagger with thinly veiled dismay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...a dagger…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne drops the blade and only barely flinches when it clatters against the stone. Having illustrated her point, she crosses her arms over her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha needs support right now, not someone who might turn on a dime and stab her the moment she does anything that </span>
  <em>
    <span>might </span>
  </em>
  <span>be considered threatening.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Marcy’s turn to stare at Anne like she’s grown a second head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha-what do you take me for?!” She splutters, offended, “I’d never-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then why did you bring the dagger after I specifically told you that I didn’t think it was a good idea?” Anne cuts her off. “And then what was that in the cell?” her hands- er- </span>
  <em>
    <span>hand </span>
  </em>
  <span>rises in a finger quote, “‘It is in your best interest to be cooperative, otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety.’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy finds herself taking a step back without her input. Had she actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>said </span>
  </em>
  <span>that? She remembers that they’d argued, remembers that something very hot and very tight had taken refuge in her throat upon entering the prison, but she didn’t remember saying that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly the dagger she had hidden as a precaution felt an awful lot more like a threat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?!” Anne snaps, hand snapping up and forward until a finger had planted itself directly into her chest. “You what?! What could you possibly think justified-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She cut off your hand, Anne!” Marcy snaps back. The words tasted bitter, it felt wrong to shout at Anne, even like this. Especially like this. “You can’t just forget that! She’s dangerous!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s a teenager!” Anne shoves her. Pushes against her armour so she’s forced to stumble back into the wall. “Just like we are. She made a mistake, yes, but we can’t just-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A mistake?!” Marcy doesn’t like this. She doesn’t want this, she wants to stop. She doesn’t want to fight with Anne, it feels wrong. It makes her feel ill. Sick, even. But something in her throat, something tight and hot and painful won’t let Anne just let it go. “She cut. Off. Your. Hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her legs are moving, advancing on Anne, but Anne stands her ground even in her intensity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are never getting that back. Never. You’re gonna have to live with that for the rest of your life-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So does she.” Anne’s expression is stone. An acceptance that is almost a resignation had carved it just so. “I know what she did, Marcy. Trust me, I do, but I choose not to let it rule me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lifts her left arm, and the empty space at the end feels like a knife in Marcy’s chest. “This isn’t worth losing her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That tight, hot thing in her chest seizes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you are?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words left her lips but they sound… off. Dangerously soft and fragile, considering their context. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne looks like she’s been struck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...wh… what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s eyes sting, but it’s an afterthought. Her throat is burning, her hands are shaking, and that hot thing in her chest is trying it’s damndest to escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how you got out of the sewers, Anne?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why is her voice like that?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne still looks confused. Blindsided, really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I…” she trails off, and her face contorts in realization, “... I don’t remember…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy feels herself nod, she’d expected that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sprig came to me,” she starts, “and said that you’d gone running off in the sewers after something. I followed, and I found you just before she…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A dawning horror is mounting in Anne’s eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I carried you back.” Marcy doesn’t let her speak. No, the heat in her chest </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>let her. Not before… “I walked back with your barely conscious, bleeding, broken body draped over my shoulder.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...marcy…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>held </span>
  </em>
  <span>you!” She spits the words and something wet runs down her face. “I held you as we walked and you cried over </span>
  <em>
    <span>her!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t see Anne’s face, her vision is too blurry. Her eyes are too raw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Everything is too raw, it feels like her body is coming apart at its seams and she’s powerless to stop it. “You were bleeding to death in my arms and you cried for her!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s legs give out. She falls to her knees and, vaguely, she feels the sting of metal biting into her knees, but she doesn’t care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s crying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her body is wracked with sobs as moments, flashes play over and over in her mind’s-eye. Anne sobbing as her entire front was covered in blood. Blood-soaked bandages that she had pulled tight with her own trembling fingers. Screams in the hospital as a fire-poker was pressed against the torn flesh in order to burn it closed. The scent of burning flesh. The blood on her own hands she’d scrubbed at for hours on end. Trying to sleep and only managing to cry as the scent of iron refused to leave her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy cries, and cries, and cries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cries until she can’t cry anymore. Until all of her tears have dried and her throat is raw from the sobs. Until her face feels chapped from the tears and she’s left hollow and empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At some point, Anne had sunken down to meet her. She’d wrapped her arms around Marcy’s shaking shoulders and held her close as she poured out every last grain of grief and hurt out of herself. Anne, who had lost a hand, who had walked those catacombs with her, who was the one who had been burned, who had bled, who had lost and lost and lost, held her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy would’ve cried again if she could’ve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the tears have left her, leaving behind an exhausted teenager who felt too weak to even move in the armour on her shoulders. Her head lands in the crook of Anne’s neck and she drinks in the familiar scent. Whatever little comforts she can get, whatever she can hold onto. Her hands have balled themselves in the fabric of Anne’s shirt, and she doesn’t have the wherewithal to uncurl them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t lose you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s grip tightens for a moment and Marcy tries not to revel in how good it feels to be held.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You won’t.” She whispers into the crown of her head. The sound vibrates down her spine and, somehow, another few errant tears manage to escape down her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy isn’t sure where the words came from, but she knows them to be true. They’ve always been true, in one sense or another. Anne is her best friend, her only friend. She has always loved her, and always will for that, but this is different.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This isn’t the same kind of love she’s used for years. It isn’t the one that she can say with a smile or use as a reply to a particularly mean joke or violent wrestling session.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the kind of love that takes refuge in her chest and burns. It’s the kind that encompasses her whole being, that wrestles control from her hands, that leaves her helpless to her own raging emotions. It’s the kind of love that she’s only read of in storybooks. The kind that hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s arms, still wrapped around her body, shake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Anne whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy wonders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re half-way back to the Plantar’s hotel before Marcy even registers where they are. She’s been in a haze ever since that conversation in the Prison, relying on Anne’s gentle guiding hands and soft words for function.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It should be mildly disturbing, that she can shut down like that, but Marcy finds she doesn’t have it within herself to care. Everything still feels a little distant, her eyes still burn from unshed tears. Her stomach is sore. Her chest aches with each breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However, with her head still resting in the crook of Anne’s neck-- she can feel strands of her hair being tugged at, and a weight that has settled around her shoulders-- she is comfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She never wants the carriage ride to end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne is humming under her breath, a song that Marcy doesn’t remember the name of or the words to, and she would bet on the same being true for Anne, but the tune is familiar and so she lets herself relax into it. Into Anne.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The weight around her shoulders shifts, stroking up her arm and back down comfortingly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can feel her eyelids drooping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wake you up when we get there,” Anne assures, somehow aware of her plight, and Marcy can’t stop the ragged laugh from pushing out of her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that far…” she argues. Anne just hums, noncommittal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, the swaying of the carriage, the warmth of Anne’s body, and the gentle tugs at her hair, slowly lull her to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A gentle prodding at her side rouses her, but she’s already out of the carriage and standing in an elevator before she actually manages to wrestle her way into wakefulness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hotel is the best in the city, and Marcy knows it well from her own brief stint within its wall, plus all of the extra trips escorting the Plantars from it to the hospital and back. But somehow, perhaps it’s the rays of a dying sunset struggling its way through the large windows, it looks different. There’s something… final? No, foreboding, in the air. Something that makes the tired feeling in her bones shrink to make way for the lighter, and more familiar weight of anxiety.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stands beside her, left arm wrapped around Marcy’s waist, and Marcy finds herself reaching for a hand that isn’t there to hold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A breath escapes her and it tastes sour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne, what am I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shh,” Anne admonishes, not even turning to face her. When Marcy's brows knit in response all she receives in reply is a gentle nudge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The elevator doors open and, without any heed to Marcy’s silent protests, Anne drags her through the wide, gilded golden halls. They come upon a warm wooden door and Anne tugs out a key to open the lock. Her left arm never leaves Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the door open, Anne escorts her inside and gently kicks it closed behind the two of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne, I should really go back to the-” Marcy tries again, but Anne silences her with her hand, gently resting it on her shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her face is tired, and her eyes are pleading.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stay.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words are barely a whisper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hand on Marcy’s shoulder slides down to take her hand instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes never leave Marcy’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever sense of foreboding that had been in the air, dissipates with that single word.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s strange, she thinks as they prepare for bed. Most people their age have sleepovers, and they had certainly had their own fair share when they’d been in the human world, but this is so much different than any form of sleepover she might’ve experienced before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For one, there is no Sasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For another, they’re actually planning on sleeping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And for a third, there’s something… intimate… about this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy had been with Anne without her armour before, but she’s never taken it off while in her presence. The feeling of the familiar weight leaving her shoulders is accompanied with a gentle pat on her shoulder and a set of generic, hotel-brand sleep-clothes shoved into her arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They crawl into Anne’s bed without so much as another word exchanged between them, and when Anne’s arms find their way around Marcy’s middle, she doesn’t stop to question it for even a moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not like her bed in the palace, that one is covered in notebooks, quills, bottles of ink, and assorted books she’d snuck in there from the library. It’s been a very long time since Marcy has slept in a bed, and an even longer one since she’s slept in a bed that didn’t randomly stab her at some point during the night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s warmth at her side should be alien, but it isn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t even uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The chill of winter has all but set in at this point, and Marcy knows from several records she’s read on the subject it’s only a matter of time before snow appears. Anne’s body had always been a bit warmer than most, and right now it’s the best thing to ward off the cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels warm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Comfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy hasn’t felt safe since falling into Amphibia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a startling realization, and perhaps one she should’ve had a while ago. Even in a palace, surrounded by guards, and with the King’s assurances, she hadn’t felt safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing felt safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers the dagger she had snuck into Sasha’s chamber.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was that it? The reason for all of her new and strange behaviours? The reason that she could look at someone she’d known for almost her entire life and see a threat before she saw anything else?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands come up to grip onto Anne’s arms, and behind her she hears a quiet sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re thinking too loud.” Anne whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy wants to laugh, but the motion won’t come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s all I ever do.” She says instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne does manage a laugh and headbutts the back of Marcy’s shoulder affectionately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For an extended moment that seems to be the end of it. Anne’s breaths are even against Marcy’s neck, and the last dying rays of the sun have long since fallen below the horizon, leaving the room dark with only the City lights below to light it. Marcy makes it half-way to drifting off before Anne speaks again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice is incredibly soft.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going back to Wartwood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like an anvil falling from the sky, the foreboding crashes over her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s arms tighten. She can feel the notches of her spine pressing against the front of Anne’s night-shirt. Anne’s breath ghosts over the back of her neck when she speaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“While you were unconscious, King Andrias had a breakthrough,” the arms wrapped around her middle squeeze gently, “He wanted to just send the Plantars to go get the Calamity Box, but I volunteered to go with them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something terribly tired in Anne’s voice and Marcy has the sneaking suspicion it has nothing to do with the trying day they’ve had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns in Anne’s hold, receiving a displeased grumble for her trouble. By the time she’s turned to face her, Anne’s face is half-way to a scowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh-why didn’t you tell-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You earlier?” Anne cuts in, before smiling a sardonic smile. “Well for one, we already had enough to deal with at the time, and for another…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s right arm lifts so that she can trail her hand up Marcy’s side to rest against her cheek.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks, dumbstruck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You would.” Anne doesn’t let her even start. Her eyes are on her, but they won’t meet her gaze. “You want to, now. I can tell.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy can’t really argue that point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just got you back,” she decides on and carefully reaches out her own hand to take the one resting on her cheek. Anne lets her. “And we’re in the middle of a war. It’s not safe to travel right now and I </span>
  <span>need-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need me.” Anne cuts her off again. The hand in hers tightens into a fist. A deep breath is pulled into her chest. “And I… I don’t need you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something shatters inside of Marcy’s chest, but Anne isn’t done speaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like you. I want you. And I trust you, but I don’t need you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hand held in Marcy’s gradually loosens before turning to lace its fingers between Marcy’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are the most important person in my life right now, and that is why I need to go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s eyes open once more and, somehow, in the darkened room they seem infinite. Twin blackholes staring her down, staring through her, right into her soul.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t need you, and you can’t need me. That is a dangerous game to play and I refuse to even start it with you. You have been there for me when I needed you to be, and for that, I am so, so grateful, but I need a break from all of this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy has never felt so lost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand.” she feels like she’s being pulled in a hundred different ways at once and she can’t seem to even remember which way is up and which is down. “Did… did I do something wrong?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is something so terribly pained in Anne’s eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That… was not the answer she was hoping to hear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not,” she continues, “that’s not for me to decide.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha... “ she splutters, “how-how am I supposed to fix it if I don’t even know if I’ve done anything wrong?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne shrugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, that’s why I have to go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, now Marcy is really confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Think of it like this,” Anne sits up a little, more just props herself up on her elbow, before releasing her grasped hand to gesture, “in Avatar: The Last Airbender, before prince Zuko joins the gaang he has to go off on his own for a while, without even his uncle Iroh, in order to figure some stuff out and find himself as a person.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy feels her brow furrowing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But he only has to do that so that he can see that all he ever wanted is pointless given the horrors he’s seen, and so he can confront Ozai one last time to finish his redemption arc-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, I’m not saying it’s a perfect analogy.” Anne holds up her hand placatingly, “what I am saying, is that I need time to process. A lot has happened over the past two months, I need a break. Plus, with Sasha here the Toad Army has come to a standstill. Grime won't make a move while his precious Lieutenant is in the line of fire. It’s the best chance we’re gonna get in order to go for the Calamity Box.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy tries her hardest to digest that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So… you’re going back to Wartwood in order to take a break from everything going on with the War?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne makes an interesting face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Partially.” She concedes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok, when do we leave?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That sad glint is back in Anne’s eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy is confused again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Anne agrees. “<em>I</em> am leaving tomorrow morning. You are staying here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy gives Anne another dumbfounded look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are… are you mad at me? Is this about the whole Sasha thing earlier? Look Anne, I’m sorry, but I can’t just forgive-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne places her finger over Marcy’s moving lips, effectively silencing her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not mad at you.” Her voice is just fond enough to convince her of it. “And this is only partially about the Sasha thing earlier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s getting kinda tired of these cryptic assurances. She grabs Anne’s hand away from her mouth and tries her hardest not to pout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then spell it out! I’m not good at picking up on subtext, you know this!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The side of Anne’s mouth quirks upwards for a second, before smoothing back down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m worried about you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” She questions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marce… you haven’t been yourself lately. Even ignoring the whole thing at the prison, there’s also your increased insomnia… these past two months have been bad for me, and I doubt they’ve been any better for you. You need a break. We need a break. So I made a deal with King Andrias.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy isn’t sure she likes the sound of that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What deal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne gives her a look that feels almost as intimate as taking off her armour did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re on leave. Until I get back, no work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne somehow still manages to blindside her, no matter how much she thinks she’s figured her out at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No buts.” Anne’s gaze turns stern. “King Andrias already approved it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy feels herself pouting before she can even try and stop it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell am I supposed to while you’re gone then?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Relax.” Anne answers, as if that is the obvious answer, “go on a walk, read a book for fun instead of research. Draw, learn a new board game, I don’t know! Just… take a break.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t take breaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even back home, when she wasn’t doing school work she was grinding in a video game, or researching whatever strange topic had caught her fancy that week, or working on creating a scale model of the Eiffel tower out of legos, or some other project. Breaks do not exist, they can’t exist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about you?” she protests, “I get to ‘take a break’ while you, what, go on a perilous journey across the countryside?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne laughs. She actually laughs. It’s enough to get some of the incredulity to loosen from Marcy’s chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like to think of it as more of a ‘family vacation,” she says once she’s regained her breath, “besides, I haven’t really gotten to have any quality time with the Plantars since…” she gestures with her left arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne sighs and gently snakes her arms back around Marcy’s middle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to turn this into a big discussion,” she mutters softly. “I just… this is gonna be the last night we have together for a bit. I’m gonna miss you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then why are you going?</span>
  </em>
  <span> She wants to argue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she keeps it to herself. Instead, she turns in Anne’s hold one more time, nestling back into the crook of her neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come back in one piece,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne chuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A bit late for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She licks Anne’s neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A squeak answers her and Anne tries to pull away, but Marcy holds on tight, not letting her escape. After a few moments of wriggling, Anne gives up, falling back against the bed with a frustrated huff.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a jerk.” She mutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. You.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No…” Anne yawns, “you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“you...” Marcy counters, but it’s more of a mumble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmm…” Anne hums, intelligently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy is already asleep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Leveling Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🐸~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving Newtopia was one of the hardest things that Anne had ever had to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t like to think of herself as a particularly smart person, and she definitely doesn’t want to call herself a mature one (it feels a bit like blasphemy) but these past two months had quickly proven to both herself and others that her limits were far beyond what she’d originally thought. Part of that had to be the trauma, she concedes, but she also believes that character has something to do with it. Amphibia had changed her, she knows, and responsibility was one of the many traits she’d been forced to acquire in order to guarantee her survival, even if it didn’t always present itself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so she had made the executive, mature, adult decision that she needed a break.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things weren’t looking good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha was just barely holding on to her last few shreds of sanity and Marcy was…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What even was Marcy?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The whole ‘collapsing from exhaustion’ thing had been at least somewhat expected. Not enjoyable, certainly not, but expected. She hadn’t been sleeping, she’d been working herself to the bone, and she’d always had some struggles with knowing where her limits were.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever had happened at the prison? That was new.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That had scared her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That, actually, was why she had to leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When King Andrias had summoned her (during those two exhausting days that Marcy had been unconscious and Anne had taken her place in all but official title) and told her of the Calamity Box’s properties as well as their need to both recover it and then transport it to the three temples to use it, she’d been apprehensive. Getting all the materials needed for what was bound to be a long and dangerous journey in the middle of a war was already going to be a challenge. Going back to Wartwood and getting the box was going to be an entirely different one. Having the collateral of Sasha wasn’t yet a guarantee of Grime’s armistice, and she hadn’t even really liked the idea of that.  (What she’d seen from Sasha when she’d broken into her room still left her shaken.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne had shelved the idea when Marcy woke up, deciding it’d be better to discuss it after they knew what kind of condition Sasha was in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then the prison happened…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha was so much worse than she had even imagined. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The image of those vacant grey eyes haunted her whenever she thought about it too much. The sunkeness of her cheeks and the way that the bones in her arms poked out. She looked half-starved and her every word held a gravelly weight to it, like she could see the gallows and was taking her time to taste every word as it left her mouth. Savouring something she feared she’d lose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Marcy...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy wasn’t Marcy anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, well, she was. She was just as sweet and kind as ever, but there was another side to her that she hadn’t seen before, and she wasn’t sure where it had come from. It was cold, and dark, and dangerously sharp. It was like a soldier had possessed Marcy’s body, replacing any sort of kindness or compassion with something unfeeling, bound by duty and nothing else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It scared her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the disastrous confrontation in Sasha’s cell (Marcy’s callous remarks followed by Sasha digging her fingers into her hand and pulling out the muscle), Anne had sent a message to King Andrias, having made up her mind:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They needed a break.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All of them needed a break.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This was too much, it was the straw that had broken the camel’s back, and Marcy’s breakdown mere minutes after she’d returned to her had only served to prove that point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha was in a secure facility with Guards and doctor’s watching her every move, she was going to be stable for a couple weeks at worst. As for Marcy…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne wasn’t blind, nor was she deaf, and while she would never call herself a smart person she wouldn’t call herself an oblivious one either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s words after she’d woken up, the soft gazes that seemed reserved for only her even when she was deep into her ‘soldier mode’, that entire breakdown inside the jail… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her suspicions were confirmed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy loved her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In a decidedly not friendly way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she… she needed to think about that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She needed to think, Marcy needed a break from work before it turned her into Newtopian guard permanently, and Sasha needed time to cool down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That didn’t mean that she felt good about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had left Marcy alone in a city with no friends and instructions to ‘relax’ she doubted were going to be fulfilled, and Sasha in a near-catatonic state. A better person would’ve stayed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Anne couldn’t be a better person, she was tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Exhausted was a better word, but still somewhat lacking. It felt as if someone had taken a carving knife and removed the insides of her chest, leaving behind a hollow cavern that struggled to even feel the crushing weight resting atop her shoulders. That ‘someone’ probably had a name, but Anne honestly didn’t have it within herself to place any blame.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was so far beyond blame.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did it even matter that Sasha had cut off her arm? Yeah, it had hurt in the moment and she knew on a logical level she couldn’t exactly grow it back but… was it worth it? Was being angry really worth it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay Sash, I’m not mad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re… not mad?!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t get to pity me… I cut off your arm. You don’t get to be nice to me!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha had betrayed her, even before the damn hand had been stolen, and she’d forgiven that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could’ve killed you! I could’ve killed you… oh God, I could’ve killed you. Oh god… I-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hadn’t she?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Make it even.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had she ever really forgiven her for the Toad Tower?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I told you to make it even. You should’ve done it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What was there to forgive? She’d attacked her family, nearly killed both Sprig and Hop-pop, Anne had been furious. She’d been livid, she’d been ready to stand up to Sasha and fight for herself for once. Fight for her new family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It hurts.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then the tower fell, and Sasha nearly did too. Any anger she had melted like a dream. She’d held onto Sasha’s hand, promising they’d be ok, and Sasha had looked up at her while her feet dangled over open air. In that moment she’d seen something in her face. Something click in her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maybe you’re better off without me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had she forgiven her then?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I was trying to protect you!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did she forgive her now?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I could’ve killed you!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“You were bleeding to death in my arms and you cried for </b>
  <b>
    <em>her!</em>
  </b>
  <b>”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t worth losing her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“But you are?”</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever so loyal, ever so lovely, ever so protective, Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If she forgave Sasha, something she wasn’t even sure was a question at this point (Did she even have to? Could she ever really?). What did that mean in regards to her relationship with Marcy? What even was her relationship with Marcy at this point?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, she had left, and at this point, she was going to have to live with that. Some time away would do her good, she was sure, and some time with the Plantars was sorely needed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever since the accident, it seemed harder and harder to find time to spend with them. Part of that was her own fault, she knew, but another part of it was them trying to give her space. Even when she was spending time with them she could tell they were always watching her, eyes wide and words cautious. Walking on eggshells.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was saddening, but not entirely unwarranted. She hoped that this trip would help in that regard, get them back to the place they were before everything went wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So far, not so much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were only about a day into the trip, but Polly and Sprig were still avoiding her like the plague, trading awkward glances between one another at any given opportunity and trying their best to offer Anne smiles that were so forced they looked pained.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop wasn’t nearly as bad, but she could tell that he too was struggling with her presence, unsure if he should be treating her like ‘good ole’ Anne’ or the fragile girl with only one hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Words traded between the four of them were stilted, and Anne would’ve been more upset if she could blame them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But how could she? She wouldn’t know how to approach her either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne…” Hop-Pop’s voice creaks into Anne’s spiralling thoughts and wrenches her back to the present with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has to blink several times and shake her head a little to fully readjust to her surroundings. It was a nice day, cloudless and sunny. It was still chilly, but not overly so, and Hop-Pop had bundled himself up in several blankets and coats to keep out the bulk of the chill. Anne was sure that most of her body-heat was also helping to ward off the cold if the feeling of his body pressing into her side was anything to go by.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” she asks, intelligently, and the old frog’s eyes crinkle slightly behind the large scarf covering the majority of his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ya were mumblin’.” He says, gentle, and returns his gaze to the road.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s… odd. She’s gotten to the point with the plantars that being one on one with any of them shouldn’t phase her anymore, especially not Hop-Pop. (Except maybe for fear of relationship advice, though he’s seemed less keen on that as of recently) Now, though, she can’t help but find the silence between them just as stilted as a conversation would be. Words are hiding behind his tongue, she can see him struggling to contain them (he’d never been good with silences), but he keeps his mouth shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hates it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Hop-Pop…” she decides she doesn’t want to take it any longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He seems surprised by this, and not for the first time, she wonders how much of this sudden distance between herself and the Plantars is her fault. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes Anne?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne crosses and then uncrosses her legs. Fidgeting was always more of a Marcy thing than a ‘her’ thing, but she does suppose she’d been around her enough in the last few weeks to pick up a couple of her ticks again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do, uh…” she scrambles for a conversation topic. Anything to fill the silence. “Do you think I should’ve stayed in Newtopia?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Apparently, anything also means the most recent thing on her brain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mentally, she facepalms. Physically, she bumps herself in the chin with her left arm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop snorts, then quickly brings a hand up to his face to try and cover it. It’s too late, however, but even Anne isn’t immune to the particular brand of humour she’s stuck with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets herself laugh and Hop-Pop, upon seeing her example, judges it to do the same. It isn’t like the laughter they’d shared before, it’s missing two more voices and a bit more tired than that was, but it’s familiar, and familiar is good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once he’s collected himself, Hop-Pop rests Bessie’s reigns in his lap and turns slightly so that he’s facing her. The remnants of the laughter are still on his face and paint it a warm, fatherly expression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering how long it’d take ya to ask that.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne blinks, startled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop snorts again, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look so surprised, ya’ve never been a subtle kid.” With that, he reaches behind him into the pack, tugging out the map. “Besides, ya’ve been muttering to ya’ self and starin’ into the distance for the past couple hours. I figured some’n was botherin’ ya.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glances up to find that, indeed, the sun is quite a bit closer to the horizon than it was when she’d last checked. The shadows have already started to grow long. Crickets sing softly in the difference.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of Anne was happy that Hop-Pop could still read her, that meant that the distance wasn’t uncrossable, but another part of her whimpered at the thought. Was she really that bad at hiding her emotions? No, she couldn’t be, she’d been keeping herself together fine back in Newtopia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That, uh, that doesn’t answer my question…” she mutters, trying her best to cover the anxiety roiling in her gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some of the colour leeches out of Hop-Pop’s face as his expression grows dark. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs and Anne is sure if he weren’t wearing the scarf it would’ve been fog.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do ya want me to answer it as an objective observer or as your friend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s brows furrow in confusion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh… both…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods, apparently expecting that answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, from an outside perspective,” he begins, “an’ what ya were mutterin’ about, Sasha needs a source of constant and stable support right now, and Marcy needs someone to make sure she’s not overworkin’ herself. Leavin’ them to try and figure that out on their own could leave lastin’ consequences.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something drops in Anne’s gut. She knew it. She should’ve stayed, she should go back, she was being stupid and selfish and-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But as your friend,” Hop-Pop breaks into Anne’s internal panic attack, eyes never leaving the road. “Ya made the right decision.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The weight in her gut disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving Anne confused and still partially hunched over. She settles Hop-Pop with her best questioning look, only to receive one weathered by age in return.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re too youn’ for all this, Anne.” He says, simply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Offence tries its damndest to rocket up through her throat and spill out in a cry of indignation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something much smaller, and much weaker, starts to cry in relief inside of her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think age means much anymore.” She says instead and gestures with her left arm half-heartedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop’s eyes don’t leave her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How old are Humans when they usually have kids, Anne?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He says it softly, like he’s trying desperately to get her to understand something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, like, uh, late twenties…” she mutters, still thoroughly confused, “early thirties, why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And how old are ya?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne feels her brow falling into something akin to a scowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thirteen. HP, I’ve already told you that I don’t think that age really matters given the circumstances-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A person who isn’t ready to have kids shouldn’t have to support two other people’s wellbein’s.” Hop-Pop cuts her off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The offence in Anne’s chest loosens, just a bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... I should’ve stayed…” she tries once more and Hop-Pop hums, thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For them? Maybe,” he says, “but for ya? No. Ya needed to leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne nods, letting the words wash over her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do I do, then?” she asks. “When I get back, I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corner of Hop-Pop’s mouth contorts as he turns back to watch the road. The sun is touching the horizon now. It hasn’t disappeared, but it has dimmed to the point where looking at it no longer hurts, painting the sky a brilliant orange hue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your best.” He answers after an extended silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne can’t stop herself from scoffing and rolling her eyes. The motion is natural and instinctual and more juvenile than she’s felt in a long time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s helpful,” she grumbles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop smiles, and she can tell that was the response he wanted from her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne, let me tell ya a little secret about Adulthood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne blinks, startled by the sudden shift in conversation topic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to look at her once again, smile firmly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ya never stop wonderin’ what the hell ya’re doin’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>..</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne doesn’t know what to say to that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her expression must be pretty good, though, because Hop-Pop’s quickly breaks into a laugh and this one is much closer to his usual one. Creaky and croaking with old age and unashamed about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ya can posture and pester all ya want,” he says once he regains his breath, “but the truth is, there is no difference between adulthood and childhood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiles at her and there is something both tired and gleeful in it, “All it is, is an act. This is as grown-up as ya’re gonna get, kiddo.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne… Anne suddenly feels a whole lot more tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then… then why-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why am I saying ya’re too young for all this?” He finishes for her and she finds herself nodding dumbly. “Because ya need to enjoy being a kid while ya can, and ya haven’t been letting ya’ self.” His </span>
  <span>expression sobers, but remains fond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know ya have a lot on your plate right now. But, that’s the point of this trip, ain’t it?” He raises his brows questioningly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods again, still somewhat lost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The only difference between Adulthood and Childhood is that in Adulthood ya have to decide when ya can be a kid, in Childhood ya just can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His gaze shifts back to the Fwagon, inside of which Sprig and Polly are continuing one of their hushed bickers that Anne has gotten so used to she’d almost completely tuned it out. Then he looks back up at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let ya’ self be a kid right now, Anne,” he whispers, “Ya can be an adult again when we get back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stares back at him for a long, long moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she lets the tension leak from her body. A smile manages to worm its way onto her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks Dad.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some presents for you guys:</p><p>a - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LiZr6eDhpKdiO9EH91c4u?si=b4qAoeuuQRa4Pywc0uHkyg<br/>s - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4G6g7s1ZLYjr0l4yKhcN9D?si=a4tMhAeRR9mD48gp6Q43JQ<br/>m - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/01ch4Hon4rSxUu9Nk5xwnb?si=cb8msci_SJePMTh6wtTugg</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. DLC (interlude)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys, so a couple of things:</p><p>I am still working on these last couple chapters, but I really wanna make sure that I do them right so they're probably gonna take a while and I start classes again at the end of the week so I wanted to give you guys something in the interim. </p><p>Originally, I planned for this to either sit in my google keep for the rest of time or publish it as an April fools thing, so take this all with a grain of salt and as pure joking fun. Some of this I guess could be considered 'spoilers' but only if you really squint so read with discretion I guess?</p><p>That all being said, I hope I can get everything out within the next couple months, I love you all and thank you for over 9k reads, I can't believe that we got this far.</p><p>- Reyna.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marcy: You're my best friend.</p><p>*Anne, stares at Marcy for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, tenderly, she reaches up to grab the sides of Marcy's face*</p><p>Anne: Marce...</p><p>Marcy, heart beating out of her chest: Y-Yes...?</p><p>Anne, leaning in close and whispering: You're the dumbest fucking person I've ever met.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: Hi! Thanks for checking in. I'm 🎶still a piece of garbage🎶</p><p> </p><p>______</p><p> </p><p>Me, listening to villain playlists to get in the mood for writing Sasha</p><p>Michael Buble/mental villain!Sasha: I'm feeling good</p><p>Me: You won't be in... About ten minutes...</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>Anne, jumping on her hospital bed. Sprig opens the door, she lands on the floor in a crouch</p><p>Anne: I have crippling depression!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy, eyes bloodshot, knocking back an entire pot of steaming pitch-black coffee: This is fine.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne and Sasha about Hop-Pop and Grime respectively: 🎶you are my dad, You're my dad! Boogie-woogie-woogie🎶</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: What is the one thing I told you not to do!</p><p>Marcy: ...bring weapons into Sasha's cell...?</p><p>Anne: And what did you do?!</p><p>Marcy: brought weapons into Sasha's cell...</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha, appearing at the foot of Anne's bed in the middle of the night:</p><p>🎶Oh I hate myself🎶</p><p>🎶Oh I hate myself🎶</p><p>Anne: I thought the sleep paralysis demon was supposed to be hot?</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: 🎶I'm just like you🎶</p><p>Sasha: 🎶I'm just like you🎶</p><p>Marcy: 🎶You're just like me🎶</p><p>Sasha: 🎶You're just like me🎶</p><p>Marcy and Sasha: 🎶We're bad at communicating!🎶</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Between chaps 10 &amp; 11:</p><p>Sprig and Polly: Wake up sleepy head!</p><p>Anne: aaa!</p><p>Marcy, sleepily: The fUck... man..?</p><p>Sprig and Polly: Oh my God?!?!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Marcy: I didn't know being a princess was CoNtAgIoUs?!?!</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: I am proud to identify as a moro-sexual. I am attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. A girl once asked me what the Spanish word for tortilla was and now I dream of kissing her under the moonlight.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: I am proud to identify as a moro-sexual. I am attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. A girl once told me I was her best friend after dramatically stating I was the most important thing in her life and now I dream of kissing her under the moonlight.</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: It's a 🎶mental break down!🎶</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: I could kill you in a fraction of a second and there is nothing you could do about it.</p><p>Sasha, trailing her hand up Marcy's leg: nothing? 😏</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Grime: Sasha's at that tender age when a girl only has one thing on their minds...</p><p>Hop-Pop: Boys?</p><p>Sasha: Homicide.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: hey kids! Did you know that blood is supposed to stay /inside/ your body?!</p><p>Anne and Sasha: Whaaaaat?!</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Marcy in chapters 1-9: Father. Father, I crave violence.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Wow, Marcy is really in commander mode right now. I wonder what she's thinking?</p><p>Marcy: *Wii music*</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: I was trying to protect you! </p><p>Anne: You were protecting yourself!</p><p>Sasha: AAAAAAAAAAA!</p><p>*It was at this moment, Sasha knew: she fucked up*</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: do you think friendships can last more than one lifetime?</p><p>Sasha: Anne, our friendship can't last more than ten minutes.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: All women, are queens!</p><p>Sasha: If she bREATHeS, SHE'S A THOOOOOOOT</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Ha! Is that the best you can do!</p><p>Sasha, crying: hey, I'm trying really hard, man...</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: it's not what you think-</p><p>Sasha: you got an adoptive frog family?! I got a tyrannical ruler as a dead-beat dad!</p><p>Marcy: you guys got adoptive parents?</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha:...</p><p>Sasha: *cuts off Anne's hand*</p><p>Marcy: This is why Anne doesn't FUCKING love you!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: why is everyone afraid of love?</p><p>Anne: LOVE!</p><p>Sasha: AAAA!</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p>Marcy: I dunno, It's just that lately I haven't been able to think straight.</p><p>Inner Marcy: girls, Anne, bushy brown hair, soft lips, big smile, legs-</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: What would you say is your biggest strength?</p><p>Marcy: I fall in love easily.</p><p>Anne: Any weaknesses?</p><p>Marcy, dreamily: Those beautiful eyes of yours... </p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Sprig: Are you the big spoon or the little spoon?</p><p>Marcy: I'm a knife</p><p>Anne, hugging her: She's the little spoon.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: How are you sleeping?</p><p>Sasha: Like a baby.</p><p>Sasha: Every two hours I wake up screaming.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: I'm going to kill you!</p><p>Sasha: Do you promise?</p><p> </p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>Anne: if you're desperately trying to hold your only friends together while also suffering from severe trauma and unable to fully comprehend the extent of your injuries because you're currently living in a fantasy world that has vastly different day to day challenges than the one you're from and you know it, clap your hands!</p><p>Everyone:</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Anne: *clap clap*</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Quick! What's your blood type!</p><p>Marcy: I dunno.</p><p>Anne: You don't know?!</p><p>Marcy: Who am I, Karl Landstiener, discoverer of blood types?</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Anne: You don't know your blood type, BUT YOU KNOW WHO DISCOVERED THEM?!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: Pro-tip, instead of having feelings, try being dead inside. Same shit will happen, you just won't care anymore.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: I’ve been dropping them the most insanely obvious hints for like a year now. No response.</p><p>Marcy: Wow. They sound stupid.</p><p>Anne: But they’re not. They’re really smart actually. Just dense.</p><p>Marcy: Maybe you need to be more obvious? Like, I don’t know… “Hey! I love you!”</p><p>Anne: I guess you’re right. Hey Marcy, I love you.</p><p>Marcy: See! Just say that!</p><p>Anne: Holy fucking shit.</p><p>Marcy: If that flies over their head then, sorry Anne, but they’re too dumb for you.</p><p>Anne: <em>Marcy</em>.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: That'd go against my moral compass-</p><p>Marcy: Your moral compass is a fucking roulette wheel!</p><p>Anne: Yours isn't any better.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Here, try this: Sasha and Sprig are walking across the road, what do you hit?</p><p>Marcy: Oh, Sasha, easy.</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Anne: The brakes, Marcy. The brakes.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: You should treat spiders the way you want to be treated.</p><p>Sasha, nodding furiously: Killed without hesitation.</p><p>Anne: noOOO!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Pre-amphibia</p><p>Anne: We just have a lot of laughs here-</p><p>Marcy, to Sasha: FUCK OFF JANET! IM NOT GOING TO YOUR FUCKING BABY SHOWER!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: I fear no man. But that... Thing...</p><p>*Cut to Marcy throwing back like 13 espresso shots*</p><p>Sasha: It scares me.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: when I first met Anne I knew she was the one.</p><p>Anne: The first time I met Marcy I saw her trip over three different small children, face plant into a wall, and then somehow manage to get her head stuck in a trashcan.</p><p>Sasha: Who's Marcy?</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: Can I have a drink of that?</p><p>Sasha: It's not water.</p><p>Marcy: Vodka, I like your style-</p><p>Sasha: It's vinegar.</p><p>Marcy: Wh- wha-</p><p>Sasha: It's vinegar, puss-</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p>Anne: Wanna hear a joke?!</p><p>Sasha: I'm more into dark humour...</p><p>Anne: Oh, ok</p><p>*Turns off lights*</p><p>Sasha:</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Anne: Knock knock-</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: Hey guys do you think I can fit ten marshmallows in my mouth?</p><p>Anne: You're a hazard to society...</p><p>Sasha: And a coward, do twenty.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Oh yeah, Sasha and I are very close.</p><p>Anne: we even used to share a toothbrush!</p><p>Sasha: I... Did not know that...</p><p>Anne: Well we did!</p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: First off, I am not a bitch.</p><p>Sasha: I am THE Bitch.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: Hah! What an idiot.</p><p>Marcy: *realizes it's Anne*</p><p>Marcy: Wait, thAT'S MY IDIOT!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: Hewwo! I wiww be the doctow pewfowming youw suwgewey today! Time to make the fiwst incisiown!</p><p>Marcy, playing along: Doctow, wewre wosing her!! Her blood pwessuwe is dwopping!!</p><p>Anne: Oh no!!! Weady the defibwillatow!!</p><p>Sasha: Please just fucking turn off my life support.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: a reminder that the earth is a hot, molten core surrounded by a solid crust, and is, therefore, a ravioli.</p><p>Sasha: I’m begging you to stop.</p><p>Anne, taking notes: no, no, let her finish.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Marcy: I got a fortune this morning that said a friend would give me good news.</p><p>Marcy: So, Sash, do you have anything for me?</p><p>Sasha: I'm not your friend, asshole.</p><p>Marcy: I see. That IS good news!</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Post-amphibia</p><p>Sasha: Hey, Anne, can I get a hand-</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Sasha:</p><p>Anne:</p><p>Sasha:</p><p>Marcy, mouth full of Doritos: can I have a foot?</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: That's it. I'm leaving.</p><p>Sasha: There goes our only brain cell.</p><p>Marcy: Shit, Anne wait!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: hey do you guys ever get a craving for, like, butterflies or something?</p><p>Sasha: N-no-?</p><p>Marcy: -Constantly.</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: Wait so your pseudo-father figure <em>didn't</em> put you through rigorous amounts of tough training that gave you both mental and physical scars?</p><p>Anne: No?</p><p>Sasha: huh...</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Anne: I care about your feelings!</p><p>Marcy: I care about your feelings too!</p><p>Sasha: Hey guys, check out this rock I found! I think it's sharp enough to cut out my ears!</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: Ow! Son of a bi-</p><p>Marcy: Sasha! *Gesturing to Anne* There are children here.</p><p>Sasha: -iiscuit. Son of a biscuit is what I was gonna say...</p><p>Marcy: Nice save.</p><p>Anne: Yeah, fucking nailed it.</p><p>Marcy and Sasha:</p><p> </p><p>____</p><p> </p><p>Sasha: Hey, Marce, I think Anne mixed up our lunches... *shows note with 'I love you! &lt;3' written on it*</p><p>Marcy: Oh, so that explains this: *Shows second note with 'Please, for the love of God, be good.' written on it*</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Redemption Arc</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🗡️~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The metal door scrapes unpleasantly against the concrete as it’s pulled open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha doesn’t acknowledge the noise, doesn’t so much as flinch. It’s become familiar over the past several days, weeks? She doesn’t know. She hasn’t been counting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She keeps her eyes closed and her back turned, waiting for the clatter of the metal tray to hit the ground and the sound of the last being picked up. The guard will let out a disgruntled sigh when they find the last meal untouched, maybe even make a snarky comment on her being ‘too good’ for Newtopian cuisine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But nothing comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no clatter, no exhale of breath, not even the sound of shifting feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door doesn’t close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Sasha opens her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes burn, they water, and refuse to focus for a solid thirty seconds that have her convinced they’re not going to focus at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>swims into view.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sunlight streaming through the bars paints across her chest, showing the lack of Newtopian Coral armour like a taunt, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She isn’t even wearing her cloak. Just fitted trousers and a large shirt, tucked into the pants but still too large to not fall over them somewhat. Her hair is longer than she’d thought, having grown over the months, and it hangs around her face in a messy sleep-rumpled halo. Some of the circles beneath her eyes have faded, but not entirely. Her hands are tucked into her pockets, and there isn't a glint of metal in sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Normal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not like the guardian angel who pinned her to a wall and screamed at her to think about consequences, nor the wrathful soldier glaring at her over Anne’s shoulder. No. She looks like the girl who walked home with her from school, going on and on about some video-game Sasha couldn’t be bothered to learn the name of. She looks like the girl who sat across from her at lunch, fingers never still for longer than a few seconds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks like Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If it weren't for the fact she's wearing a long-sleeved white henley rather than a t-shirt she could almost imagine she is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes scan lazily around Sasha’s cell, not that there is much to look at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room is bright, sunlight painting the monochromatic walls a demented yellow portrait as it tries its damnedest to shed some light on the entity curled into the furthest corner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, slowly, they land on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stands there in the doorway for a solid ten seconds, watching her with a dark, unreadable expression. Her hands twitch at her sides like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha tries her hardest to meet her gaze, defiant to the very end, but her arms hurt from holding herself aloft for so long and the world is starting to turn fuzzy at its edges. Her stomach wrenches painfully and she’s forced to give up the staring contest if only so she can lean back against the wall and press her hands against it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>lips twitch downwards. Her eyebrows slowly move towards one another. Her hands gently close themselves into fists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… I got a report,” she starts, and her voice is soft, cautious, carefully neutral, "that you weren't eating."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha waits for the other shoe to drop. It’s been several days since her and Anne’s last visit, but her words still bounce around inside of her skull like a warning etched in stone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is in your best interest to be cooperative, otherwise I… can’t guarantee your safety.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her frown deepens at the lack of response, and she takes a step forwards into the cell, only to halt when something makes a squishing noise beneath her boot. Slowly, she lifts it to find the discarded remains of Sasha’s uneaten breakfast sticking to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A smile twitches at the corners of Sasha’s mouth. The motion is so foreign it startles her and she claps a hand to her face as if she suspects she’ll find a bug there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>expression flattens considerably as she reaches down to try and brush off the bits of what she assumes is some kind of Newtopian version of oatmeal. Fortunately, it seems to stick to itself more than it sticks to her boot and so it hits the floor with a comical </span>
  <em>
    <span>schlorp</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That manages to actually get a laugh out of Sasha, though it sounds more like a pained wheeze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>head snaps up, surprise flickering across her features at the noise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Sasha can’t really stop it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The laugh quickly turns to something else, coughs maybe, and she trembles. Pressed against the wall, she can feel every single time the bones of her spine scrape against it just to keep her balance. Her eyes slip closed and when she opens them again </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>crouched in front of her, the cup of water from the tray presented in an outstretched hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More on reflex than anything else, Sasha knocks it away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why the hell is she like this?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Guilt, or perhaps frustration twinges in her gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cup clatters to the ground with an empty, metallic sound, splashing its contents against the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She </span>
  </em>
  <span>blinks, but Sasha isn’t sure if it’s because of her reaction or because she got hit by the splash.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she lets out a sigh and raises her now empty hand to pinch the skin between her brows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha-” she starts, exasperated and </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Something hot and violent goes wrenching through Sasha’s gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” she snaps, half-spit half-word, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>flinches back from the force of it, putting another good few inches between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, Anne can pretend nothing is wrong if she likes. She can pretend nothing happened because she’s Anne and she’s always been like that, but she refuses to let Marcy do the same. Someone has to hold her accountable. Someone has to treat her like the monster she is, someone has to hate her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Someone beside herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>she- </span>
  </em>
  <span>no- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marcy </span>
  </em>
  <span>splutters, confusion quickly coming to replace the frustration.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha tries to stand, but her legs buckle the minute she tries to put weight on them. Marcy doesn’t have time to react other than a startled squeak. Together, they tumble until she’s flat on her back with a shaking, sweaty ball of a girl on top of her, gasping for breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Sasha wheezes, a half-formed protest on her lips, but she doesn’t quite have the breath to actually voice it. Marcy’s hands come up to rest against her sides, probably to push her away, but stop almost the moment they make contact. Her fingers slot almost perfectly between her ribs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A memory, one that feels more like a dream now than ever, pushes its way to the forefront of Sasha’s mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An afternoon at the picnic tables behind the school, three girls sat atop it rather than at the benches beside. A hand pressed against hers, warm-coloured fingers towering over her own.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“See, I told you she’s got, like, salad-finger hands!” Another girl’s voice teases only to receive a squawk of indignation in response. The warmth of the hand leaves hers. A flash of raven in the corner of her eye.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha…” a voice is speaking, it’s close to her ear, but it takes more than a few blinks for her mind to catch up to what it’s saying. It sounds afraid. “When’s the last time you ate?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something warm is underneath her body, gently holding her still as she shakes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She springs backwards, desperately scrambling to put some distance between her and the warm thing. Her vision swims hazily from side to side in the scuffle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sits up with her, however, and she thinks she can make out concern in her brows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha, please-” she calls for her, reaches for her. Her fingers ghost over her wrist, on the verge of wrapping around it. Sasha curls herself into a ball. Some unholy shriek between a plea to be left alone and a sob pushes past her teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy freezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long, extended moment, that’s how they stay. No one moves, Marcy scarcely breathes, and Sasha tries her absolute hardest not to cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She isn’t successful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crying is a difficult and painful thing to do when you’re dehydrated. This is because if your body is focusing all its water on keeping your basic functions working, it won’t waste the water on tears. Crying is a natural process the body does when it is too full of emotions, and oftentimes the tears that are released provide a certain level of relief. It signals the brain to release endorphins and oxytocin to soothe the body. When no tears come out, however, the process does not happen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha cries. Her shoulders shake, her eyes ache, her breath comes in hiccups that shake and shiver and choke, but no tears roll down her face. Her eyes are dry and blurred with no moisture to be found.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy watches, and though Sasha can barely see her, she knows there’s dawning understanding in her face. She can feel it in her stilted breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then after a long, empty moment…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need to eat something…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no movement. No offered tray or cup. No reaching hands. No forward or backward shuffling. Just words, then silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha breathes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes her a couple of minutes to respond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another pause, then, slowly, cautiously...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just one word. No more, no less. A question, not a demand. Not an order. Not a dismissal. Just a question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, well, she does but the problem is she doesn’t know how to articulate it, nor how to fix it, nor if Marcy would even believe her. Last time she was in here… Marcy has no sympathy for her, as she rightly shouldn’t. There’s no sympathy to be had for what she has done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dunno…” Is what she replies with and, if she could, she’d pull her knees tighter to her chest. “I can’t keep anything down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s true, at least. Of everything she is, Sasha is not a liar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How long has this been a problem?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a remarkably clinical response. More like a doctor than a girl she’d once dared to use toothpaste as hair gel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Since…” she gestures with her left hand, unwilling to say it. The bandages creak in the motion and she ignores the twinge of pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a sharp intake of breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... that was two months ago, Sasha…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha nods, still hidden behind her knees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... it’s gotten worse…” is the only assurance she has.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence remains for a long, thoughtful moment. Then Marcy rises to her feet. The heart inside of Sasha's chest doubles in speed and she finds herself curling tighter around her knees. It's not a rational decision, most things aren't these days. Sasha doesn't think she's made a rational decision since she entered Amphibia. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy's boots click against the stone and Sasha's eyes press tightly shut, unwilling to see as the shadow is cast over her. As Marcy looms over her and those dark eyes turn a piercing, venomous green.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The metal door scrapes shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wait, what?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, and with more effort than she'd care to admit, Sasha uncurls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cell door is closed, the corridor beyond it, empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just as suddenly as she appeared, she left. Leaving nothing but the pools of barely moved sunlight in her wake. Like a dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha is alone once again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy comes back the next morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She announces her presence with the creaking of the metal door just like last time and doesn’t bother waiting for an invitation before entering the cell. Sasha would be more annoyed if she were in a position to be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As it is, she just watches from her spot on the floor. The exact same place Marcy left her in the day before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d tried to get back into her bed but had quickly found she didn’t have the strength for it. Marcy must’ve said something to the guards before she left because none came around to deposit another tray of food or change her bandages.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She settles down across from her. She’s just as under-dressed as she was the day before, nary a scrap of armour or glint of metal. The tunic she wears is thicker, though, maybe an imitation of a sweater. Vaguely, Sasha wonders if she got it from someone or made it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s holding a brown paper bag, nothing remarkable. Sasha watches as she calmly empties its contents: different variations of bread and crackers, along with a canteen of some kind of liquid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha blinks, confused, and settles Marcy with the expression, hoping for an explanation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She won't meet her eyes. As she arranges the food in front of her, her hands shake, her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth, her boots wiggle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s nervous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, after she’s gotten everything in an order she finds acceptable, she takes in a deep, settling breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought we’d try and see if we can find something easier for you to keep down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes finally rise to meet Sasha’s and she’s startled to find something akin to apology in their depths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha can’t help but stare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows she’s in a pitiful condition, knows that she must look like she’s on death’s door, that she can’t even stand on her own, but she hadn’t realized it was this bad. That she looks so malnourished, so disgustingly weak that the one person who she thought was able to see through her has taken pity on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Infuriating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands curl into fists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need your charity,” the words are barely a growl, her throat hurts. Marcy looks like she expected that answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not getting it,” she agrees, the apology in her face melts into something much more familiar: careful neutrality, “But I’m not going to let you die in a cell before you’ve had a chance to make it up </span>
  <span>to Anne.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha sneers. It’s not something she chose to do and the motion comes so suddenly and violently that she nearly hacks up a lung. Once she has her breathing back under control she settles Marcy with a self-deprecating grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You and I both know there is no, ‘making it up’.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she thought, Marcy snorts in agreement, but that doesn’t stop her from pushing forwards the canteen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do,” she says, blandly, “but Anne doesn’t see it that way and…” she trails off for a moment, something falling over her. Her shoulders droop a little before she shakes herself back to the present. “And I think you owe her that much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stares at the offering, then glances up at Marcy, finding only a troubled frown. Any pity in her face has faded in favour of something more like… like guilt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least Sasha can understand that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes the canteen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why isn’t she here?” she asks and brings the tin to her lips, ignoring how her hand shakes with the strain of holding it steady.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If possible, Marcy’s face darkens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She went back to Wartwood,” she murmurs, looking down at her crossed legs to begin picking at the frayed edges of her boots. “King Andrias thinks he knows how to get us home, so she went to get the Calamity Box… she should be back in about two-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment the liquid touches her tongue she becomes acquainted with a strange burning sensation. She spits it out, spraying Marcy directly in the face, cutting her off with a spluttered yelp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you trying to poison me?! What the hell was in that?!” She finds herself shouting, eyes watering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy reaches up to rub at her eyes, nose scrunched up in a familiar expression. Clear liquid drips down her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ginger,” she grunts, squinting at her with disapproval. Her voice is dry enough to make a desert jealous. “It’s supposed to help with nausea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Sasha feels very stupid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Marcy flicks some of the water from her face back at Sasha, “Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sheepish smile pulls across her face. The feeling is nearly alien. “Oops?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy just stares at her, raising her brows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So…” she searches for something, anything, to redirect the conversation, “what’s the Calamity Box?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy visits her every morning. The first few times are full of stilted conversations and distrustful glances, but Sasha would honestly be more surprised if that wasn’t the case. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy hasn’t forgiven her, and Sasha is more grateful for that than she’ll ever admit. Sasha doesn’t really trust Marcy not to stab her the moment she thinks she poses a threat, but they’ve come to an unspoken agreement much similar to the one they’d had back in the human world:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They will be civil, for Anne’s sake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She said it wasn’t worth it,” Marcy had said at some point during her second visit as Sasha tried her hardest to keep down the piece of bread she’d managed to choke down with the help of the ginger-tonic Marcy had given her. “Losing you because of a mistake.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her tone made it clear she didn’t really agree with the statement, and Sasha felt that she too didn’t, but of course Anne would say something like that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And what do you think?” she asked anyway, eyes closed as her stomach twisted uncomfortably in her torso.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marcy didn’t respond for a moment before sighing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I think that Anne has given both of us more chances than we deserve.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha had once fashioned herself an excellent reader of people, a puppet master capable of manipulating anyone and everyone into whatever shape she desired. Marcy seemed to enjoy calling that into question, as Sasha quickly found she couldn’t read her like she used to. Marcy had changed in Amphibia, just as she had, but her change was one much more drastic than her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Marcy that Sasha had known was a dork with a big heart and even bigger brain who couldn’t keep her mouth shut or hands still no matter what you did. She was useful, in her own interesting way. Being smart meant that she was good at getting projects and homework done allowing Sasha an easy way to get the grades her parents wanted from her, which in turn kept them off her back, leaving her with more free time for herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Marcy that she was getting to know now… she was almost impossible to read. Her facial expressions were often little more than a twitch of the brows or a tightening of her tone. When she spoke her voice was always measured, always dry, always on her guard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was- she didn’t want to say it, but it was all she could really call it- refreshing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime had a similar effect on her when they’d first met. He was hard to manipulate and responded only to strength. He was a challenge and one that she’d loved conquering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy, this new Marcy, could’ve been a very similar challenge if she’d wanted to gain a foothold on her. If she’d wanted to cement herself as a bargaining chip or even gain a station that would get her out of this damn cell she’d have to figure out how to get this new Marcy in her pocket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t want to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was even more refreshing than the challenge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Challenge might’ve been a bit charitable, she knew what she’d need to do to get Marcy grovelling at her feet and that all started with one Anne. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t want to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a long time since Sasha had… an equal. Not a superior to be brought low like Grime, or a disciple who stole the rug from beneath her like Anne.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her and Marcy were a lot more similar than she’d once thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I thought I was clear in my directions.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marcy had left half an hour ago, but her voice still rang through the prison. Just as stony and unyielding as it was when she spoke to Sasha.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When she’d been in the cell earlier Marcy had finally asked Sasha what happened to her boots, seeing as she no longer had them, and Sasha had informed her that they’d been confiscated after she decided to use them on the guard who brought her food for target practice.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her eye had promptly twitched three times before she’d (first) pressed her hands against her eyes and groaned for a solid thirty seconds then (second) stood with the firm assurance that she’d be back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’d then disappeared down the corridor to begin chewing out the guards stationed at the end of it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sasha understood, on some level at least, that she and Marcy had landed themselves in pretty similar positions in their respective organizations. She, the lieutenant under Captain Grime of the Toad Army, Marcy as…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What was Marcy’s official title?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever it was, it apparently held quite the amount of weight as less than five minutes into Marcy’s ranting the Warden of the prison had shown up to deal with her and, going by what she could hear, was quite scared of her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Y-You were, Mast- er- Captain Marcy, but the regulations state-” The Warden stammered and Marcy let out a sigh that sounded akin to a balloon deflating.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck the regulations!” She snarled, “Jesus Christ man, use your head! It’s Winter, or at least approaching it! None of your prisoners should be without proper footwear or clothing. She looks like she hasn’t had a change of clothes since she got here!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There was a beat of silence.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She hasn’t had a change of clothes since she got here, has she?” It sounded as though she already knew the answer to that. “Please tell me you’ve at least given her access to a bathing facility…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Another beat of silence.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Marcy didn’t scream, but it was a near thing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Adding 'overhaul the Newtopian Prison system' to my Agenda-"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A-Aren’t you supposed to be on leave-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m on leave when I say I’m on leave!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The voices were retreating down the hall, further and further away, and Sasha couldn’t help but allow herself a chuckle. It seems things in the Newt military were just as infuriating as the Toad Army. That was good news for Grime.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile slipped away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Grime.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell was she going to do about Grime?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But similarity wasn’t a fix. It just meant that they… came to an understanding. Marcy would keep Sasha from killing herself, and Sasha would cooperate. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement, but it was amicable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was… comfortable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it wasn't permanent, nor was it sustainable. Marcy and her held a lot of similarities and that included the fact that they were both stubborn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They both had pride.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stares at the objects being presented to her with a poorly contained sneer. Marcy doesn’t seem to notice and tugs another few from her bag: a shirt, a pair of trousers, and what look like a set of underclothes. All of which are deposited on her bed like she’s being shown Marcy’s thrift-store haul rather than the first clean clothes she’d been given in…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How long has it been?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can barely remember what a shower feels like.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, that’s a little dramatic, she knows what a shower feels like, but the point stands that she can no longer get her fingers through her hair, it’s far too matted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She should feel relieved, should be grateful even. The weight in her gut that lifted is normal, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>correct</span>
  </em>
  <span>, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>does she feel the inexplicable urge to throw all of it back in Marcy’s face?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands curl into fists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Marcy’s sixth visit. She’s been in the prison for ten days. She’s been eating some form of solid food for five days and keeping it down. She’s been getting better. Why the living hell is she like this? Why can’t she just be grateful, be good, be </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>for </span>
  <em>
    <span>once</span>
  </em>
  <span>?!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pulls the final item from the bag-- a set of scissors larger than her face-- and this one she doesn’t lay down but, rather, holds with a cautious hand. She tugs in a breath and straightens her posture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So… I, uh, thought you’d wanna… clean yourself up…” she trails off to clear her throat before settling Sasha with a weighted look. “If I leave you alone with these... I’m not going to regret it, am I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time Sasha can’t stop herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a preschooler. I know how scissors work,” she sneers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t look convinced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s your hand doing?” she counters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha feels her expression sour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a split second, Sasha’s convinced that a smile flashes over Marcy’s face. It's gone before she can be sure. She raises her hands in surrender and turns to take her leave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be waiting down the hall, just shout if you need anything."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha rolls her eyes and makes to pull herself to her feet only to be confronted with one… uncomfortable reality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t stand on her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glances at the clothes on the bed beside her, then the scissors resting atop them, then down at her trembling hands that she can barely hold steady enough to drink from a cup with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s sliding the door closed when she realizes what she has to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marce…” she knows what she has to say, but her mouth doesn’t want to work through the syllables. Her stomach lurches at the very idea, the very notion that she’d let herself sink that low. Be that </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pauses and looks up at her, questioning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She should know she can’t do this by herself, she’s supposed to be the smart one. Hell, she’s been monitoring her progress for the past several days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unless, of course, she’s doing this on purpose… lording Sasha’s failings over her head so she’s forced to confront them head-on. At her mercy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s face shows nothing. No expectation, no realization, just a blank curiosity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is Marcy that cruel?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha feels her fists tighten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can do it herself. She’ll figure out how.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Try not to let the door hit you on the way out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s face flattens and she raises a familiar finger in response. Sasha bares her teeth in an approximation of a smile (or maybe a grimace) and the door clicks shut. The lock slides into place. Marcy’s footfalls slowly fade away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha takes a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes ten excruciating minutes to get on the new shirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It shouldn’t be that hard, she doesn’t even have to stand for this part. Lifting her arms over her head for extended periods of time, however, quickly proves itself a challenge in its own right. The muscles in her shoulders are sore and weak before she even gets the old shirt off and by the time the new one is on she is huffing for breath. Her arms fall to her sides and she sinks back against the wall with sweat-soaked skin and a wheezing cough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pants… are somehow worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She manages to make it half-way to a standing position when her legs let out what she can only assume to be a cry for mercy before she’s forced to her knees and nearly expels her lungs for her trouble. Her second attempt yields much the same results, except this time she produces her breakfast as well. It takes a couple of minutes before she tries a third attempt, but at that point she doesn’t even make it to her knees, just up on her elbows before a violent pain presents itself behind her eyes and she has to press her forehead against the stone to try and quell it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finally resorts to laying on her back and wriggling her way into the trousers. It’s not the most dignified way, and by the time she’s finished it she feels like she’s run a marathon, but it works and she’ll take whatever victories she can get at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even if said victory is laying in a sweaty, vomit-covered heap on the floor of her cell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So much for clean clothes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just… fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tears are welling in her eyes but she doesn’t have the energy to fight them or even pretend to. She just closes her eyes and lets herself cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Marcy finally comes back to check on her the sight must be appalling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then again, this is the new normal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha cries now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cries and she screams and claws and beats herself up using anything and everything at her disposal because that’s what she deserves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows it's what she deserves and, sure, she might’ve had pride at one point. It might even rear its ugly fucking head every once in a while, but it is merely an echo of what she used to have. She knows what she is and what she has done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is nothing left to be proud of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy comes back later in the day with another change of clothes, washcloth and bucket. This time, she doesn’t leave and Sasha doesn’t have it in her to voice any sort of protest. She doesn’t even have it in her to complain when Marcy takes the washcloth and starts wiping her down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s humiliating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s coddling her, cleaning her with gentle hands and quick, clinical movements. There isn’t a hint of pity or judgement in her gaze and Sasha </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She presses her teeth tighter and tighter together until she can feel them creaking under the pressure. Until Marcy lifts the shirt over her head and begins wiping the washcloth down her back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s okay Sash, I’m not mad.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fucking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damn it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pauses just as she reaches the end of Sasha’s left arm. She sucks on her bottom lip for a moment before resuming and begins to unwind the bandages from her hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha forces her teeth to come apart lest she shatter them against each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why aren’t you saying anything…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pulls the bandage from her hand and brings up the washcloth to carefully clean the area around the scabs. It’s all dried over at this point but is still very much fragile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is there to say?” Once she’s satisfied with her cloth, she takes out a fresh roll of bandages to begin wrapping the hand once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha rolls her eyes hard enough to give herself a headache.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I can think of a few things…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy finishes bandaging the hand before settling her with a flat look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha, there’s no use in beating a dead horse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s said so… matter of factly. Almost dismissive. Like there really is no point, and Sasha is the one being silly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stares.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A dead horse…” she whispers, incredulous. She can’t quite grasp it. Is she really dismissing it that easily?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sighs and sets down the washcloth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, a dead horse.” She grabs the shirt she brought with her, a simple brown sweater with a crew cut. She lays it over her shoulder before grabbing Sasha’s arms and pulling them up. A hiss of pain escapes when her shoulders are forced upwards. Marcy’s lips twitch downwards, but she says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sweater slides over her head and it’s soft against her skin. Even as it hangs over her and reminds her how much more she resembles a coat rack than a person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy is quiet for a moment as she dunks the washcloth back into the bucket and rings it out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Before Anne left we… had an argument…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha can’t help but straighten at that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You… had an argument? But you-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Marcy cuts her off and there’s something dangerous in her tone, “but just because we like each other doesn’t mean we agree on everything. That's how normal, </span>
  <em>
    <span>healthy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, relationships work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The scowl she lands on her is hauntingly familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s teeth click shut. Her hands shake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something flashes across Marcy’s face and it looks an awful lot like regret. She visibly forces herself to calm down, closing her eyes and letting out a long, controlled breath. When they open, Sasha is relieved to find they’re still brown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” She apologizes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologizes </span>
  </em>
  <span>for snapping at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A weight in Sasha’s stomach rockets down to her toes and sends a shiver racing down her spine in its wake. She wants to shout at her not to, but her teeth are still pressed too tightly together. Her hands are still trembling too much for her to voice it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy kneels down and begins undoing the wraps around Sasha’s feet that have served as make-shift socks for far too long now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want her to go and she knew I didn’t, when I voiced that I thought I should go with her, she said that I couldn’t. That she needed to do it alone. I asked her if I did something wrong and you know what she said to me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks up at her and there’s something spine chilling about her at her from her knees. It makes her want to recoil.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remains rooted to the spot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... you... did…?” she volunteers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy shakes her head, slow and deliberate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She said, ‘maybe’.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha blinks, confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy shrugs and pulls away the last of the bandages. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I thought, but we kinda moved topics before I got a chance to ask... but I think I get it now, or at least I get what she meant.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha tries to avert her eyes as Marcy begins running the washcloth over the now exposed skin of her legs. Just because they’re talking doesn’t make it any less mortifying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, she knows the patchwork her skin had become. Even before… before she turned herself in (because that’s what it was. She couldn’t have killed Anne. That’s what she’s going to choose to believe because anything else will give her another mental breakdown and she’s already had one today.)  she’d gotten herself into a number of scrapes with the inhabitants of the Camp as well as just daily life in Amphibia. Her skin looks like a quilt haphazardly stitched together so many times that it’s more thread than cloth at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hadn’t done anything wrong,” Marcy says, not even pausing in her work and part of Sasha wonders if her skin looks similar. Is that why she’s taken to wearing long sleeves and knee-high boots? “I was thinking wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now Sasha’s more confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... what does this have to do with ‘beating a dead horse’ or whatever.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m getting to it,” Marcy chastises, but the look she sends her is bordering on playful. It makes her chest ache. She stands and places the washcloth back in the bucket before offering her arms, raising her eyebrows expectantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha sighs through her gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is demeaning.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She places her hands on Marcy’s shoulders and she lifts her into a standing position with ease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“More than collapsing from exhaustion into a pool of your own vomit?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sniffs and it is remarkably close to her ear. She has a couple of inches on her, but Marcy is still more stable than she is and so she’s forced to sink into her arms for support. She can feel Marcy’s </span>
  <span>eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as she tries to give her some little modicum of modesty, even if it’s a moot point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you were thinking wrong?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sighs and her breath is warm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her arms rest around her waist, supporting her as she struggles to get the new pair of trousers up without falling on her ass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne was trying to tell me that while I wasn’t wrong,” the arms tighten just a little and Sasha can imagine the scowl darkening Marcy’s features even as she can’t see it. “holding it over our heads will just torture all three of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha manages to latch the button closed and Marcy carefully lowers her back down onto the bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Besides, you’ve made it abundantly clear you know what you did wrong. There’s no point in beating a dead horse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s looking down at her and there’s something in her expression. Something so intense that Sasha can taste it, but not name it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy releases her, but her hands linger on her shoulders, resting there for a moment too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please stop beating it, Sasha.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gut drops through the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No buts.” Marcy cuts her off, “just… think about it, okay? This isn’t forgiveness, I can’t give you that, but… you’re just going to kill yourself if we don’t move on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The word snaps from Sasha’s throat and it shouldn’t feel so good to finally say it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t even look surprised.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne deserves better than that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fire in Sasha’s chest, the one that hasn’t died out no matter what she’s been through, no matter what she’s done or how much she’s wanted to claw it out of her kicking and screaming, sputters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy waits, but Sasha doesn’t know what to say. When she can’t finish the sentence she just sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How short do you want it?” The scissors flash in the light as she pulls them from their spot beside the bucket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stares, first at the scissors, then Marcy, then her own hands, balled in her lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anne deserves better than that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne deserves better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy nods, face impassive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I would like to let everyone know that this is not my best work but if I had to stare at it in a google doc for any longer I was gonna pull my hair out.</p><p>On an unrelated note, guess who has Covid19?! :)</p><p>See y'all later, we're approaching the finale.</p><p>- Reyna</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Boss Battle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: graphic depictions of violence </p><p>You're not ready.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🦎~ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t like Sasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was a given. After everything she'd done, everything that she had put her and Anne through, if she was anything less than distrustful of her she'd have to be insane.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she couldn't say that she hated her either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wanted to. God knew, she wanted to. With every fibre of her being, every spec of her soul, she wanted to be able to look at her and see nothing more than a monster. A blight on her life she'd be better off without, that the world would be better off without.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she couldn't.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because the girl sitting across from her is just that, a girl. A girl with sunken eyes and cheeks; bones protruding at odd, painful-looking angles; scars that line her body like a patched up hot air balloon; and short, sloppily cut blonde hair, near white with the pallor of malnourishment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The girl sitting here in front of her isn't a monster or a devil waiting for a chance to strike, she's Sasha, masquerading as a skeleton that bites more often than it should.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One who apparently sucks ass at chess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>".. check…" Sasha says the word almost like she's afraid to declare it, a suspicious glint in her eyes as she lifts her finger from her knight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost bored, Marcy flicks her pawn forwards with the tip of her nail, knocking the knight over in one fell swoop. As she lifts the discarded white piece from the board, Sasha groans in frustration and reaches up to pull at the roots of her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chess is just the latest in their conquest, though admittedly the first that Sasha has had trouble with. Neither of them are great at talking and so after their second day of awkwardly sitting in silence for more than three hours, Marcy had decided to take matters into her own hands. The first had been card games, some they remembered from the human world and-- once they’d exhausted those-- some that they’d learned in Amphibia. Chess was only the latest of their games, and only because Marcy got tired of losing to Sasha at Newtopian Ratscrew</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But going by how Sasha is doing at their chess games, Marcy has a sneaking suspicion they’ll be changing games again soon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear you weren’t as good at this back home,” Sasha grumbles, petulant, and reluctantly castles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had more practice,” Marcy counters dryly. She surveys the board for a few moments before sliding her bishop up three spaces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s brow furrows and she casts a questioning look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With who? Anne?” Her left rook moves two spaces to the right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think Anne knows how to play chess.” Marcy’s knight snaps forward to capture the rook and Sasha grunts in disapproval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t answer my question.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Remind me which one of us is technically a prisoner?” Sasha’s bishop is the next to go, earning another grunt, “I don’t have to answer all your questions.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha glares. It’s not like the glares that they used to share, there’s no real heat behind it and no intent to do any actual harm. It’s just… a look. Nothing more, nothing less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna keep being an ass or do I need to throw this pawn through your skull?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d be lucky if it even hit me, noodle arms.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The face that Sasha makes is dangerously close to a pout and she, predictably, hurls the aforementioned pawn at Marcy’s head. Marcy ducks. There's a hollow clattering noise against the wall. Marcy's rook slides three spaces to the left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Check."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha grunts once more and pulls her king to the right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy slides forward a pawn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Checkmate."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha flips the board, scattering pieces everywhere and whacking Marcy in the face with several of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Fuck off!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy laughs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's strange, she thinks, that they've reached a point where they can laugh at each other. She still wouldn't call them friends, certainly not, but they aren't enemies either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And they're definitely too familiar to be acquaintances.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn't really know what to call her relationship with Sasha other than… comfortable. They are comfortable with each other. Honestly, that's the best she could've hoped for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha continues cursing up a storm before picking up several of the fallen pieces and continuing to pelt Marcy with them. Marcy grabs the chessboard to use as a makeshift shield, still trembling from poorly contained laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not my fault that you don’t know what you’re doing!” She says and it sounds dangerously close to a tease. Sasha shouts another round of expletives and starts trying to wrestle the chessboard from her grasp so she can bash her over the head with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy throws back her head and cackles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Comfortable. That’s all it is, comfortability. No less, no more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wrestling match ends with Marcy flat on her back, arms raised to shield her face, and Sasha heaving like she just ran a marathon with a boulder tied to her back. The past week has proven beneficial for her and she’s definitely in a lot better health than she was at the start of her imprisonment, but she still gets winded far too easily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That first visit on her own had been an eye-opener. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy had come with the intent to either lecture Sasha into eating or finally give her a piece of her mind without Anne there to intervene, but the moment she’d seen her through that metal door-- shoulders hunched, hair matted, disturbingly pale and small-- she didn’t have it in her. It finally sunk in that there was no point anymore. Sasha was already at her lowest point, she couldn’t bring her any lower if she tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was doing better now, at least as far as Marcy could tell. She still had that look of ‘on death’s door’ about her, but she could sit up straight and stand on her own. That was a pretty good amount of improvement for just over a week, she thought. The current predicament she found herself in just seemed to prove that further. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Sasha felt well enough to try and bash her skull in with a chessboard, she was healing just fine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Asshole!” Sasha finishes with a final breathless declaration and flops backwards, nearly giving herself a concussion against her bed frame. Marcy continues cackling from her place on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s… only... Fair…” she coughs between bouts of laughter, earning a violent nudge from what she assumes is Sasha's foot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“fuck... off...” she wheezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Marcy gets her breathing back under control and begins to pull herself into a sitting position.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like you swear more than you used to…” she smirks at the glare she receives. Sasha’s shoulders are still rising and falling in rapid breath, a bit of sweat glistens on her chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My only company for the last couple months has been a literal army, jackass. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much more comfortable you’ve gotten with it, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy hums, noncommittal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I believe the term is called ‘code-switching’? I don’t swear nearly this much around anyone. You, on the other hand…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha flips her off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts and then picks up the now discarded chessboard, beginning to set it up for another round. Sasha groans, slumping back so that her chin is pointed at the ceiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do we have to play another round?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you’ve got another idea I’d love to hear it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can feel Sasha’s pout even without looking up to see it and it startles her just how much it reminds her of Anne.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t prisoners supposed to get, like, yard-time or something?” she rebuffs instead of offering an actual suggestion and Marcy thinks if she rolls her eyes any more she’s going to pop a blood vessel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m working on it, okay. The Newtopian prison system is way behind what someone would consider ‘humane’ or ‘reformative’. As much as I’d love to just redesign it and call it a day there’s logistics I’ve gotta worry about, the least of which being public approval-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, sheesh,” Sasha cuts her off, but when Marcy finally looks up from the board to glare at her she isn’t met with an expression of frustration. Nor one of annoyance. If anything, she looks sympathetic. “You really do put a lot of work into this, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blinks, taken aback by the sudden shift of conversation into something resembling seriousness. They haven’t had a serious conversation in a while, mostly because they both know that the line of civility they walk is a thin one. Then again, getting transported here is one of the few things that Marcy can’t blame Sasha for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What else was I supposed to do?” she counters by way of explanation, “They needed help and I could help. It’s as simple as that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha is quiet for a long, extended moment, then...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you know your eyes glow…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says</span>
  <em>
    <span> that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh- What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s lips press together and she pulls her knees to her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… when Anne and I had our… when I attacked her,” when she says it she winces. Screws her face up into something that resembles pain, but she says it anyway. “I thought I was imagining it, but then…” she trails off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy waits.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But then when you showed up... your eyes…” she shivers, “I’ve never seen anything that shade of green.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...my eyes are brown…” Marcy mutters, absently, but Sasha just glares at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know that, smartass.” She lets out a sigh and visibly forces herself to relax. “My point is… Amphibia has changed us, and I don’t just mean in the ‘we’re probably all gonna need therapy’ way. I don’t think we ended up here by accident, and... I’m not so sure we can leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Up, set, spike.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy stares at her for probably longer than is considered polite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...did you hit your head?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The look that flashes across Sasha’s face is the closest thing to ‘offended’ that she’s seen from her in a long time. But before she can start cussing her out again they’re interrupted by the scrape of the cell door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Newt that enters is recognizable to Marcy only by face, and only because she’s seen it so often that it sometimes haunts her nightmares.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Captain Marcy-” her first lieutenant starts and all the muscles in Marcy’s spine and face tighten instinctually at the title. She’s on her feet before she even thinks to move and she suddenly feels stunningly naked without her armour and cloak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant, how can I help you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Newt’s face is carved from stone, a trait that is so common among Newt soldiers it’d be harder to find one that was expressive, but they’ve been under fire enough that Marcy can recognize the worry in their eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s been a breach.” Marcy’s heart stops, “As of ten minutes ago your leave is revoked and all militants, both past and present, have been called into active duty. We’re under attack.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calling the next few minutes a blur wouldn't be totally accurate because Marcy remembers them as clear as day, but there's a certain… disconnect between the events that play out in them and what choices Marcy consciously makes. She's moving on instinct-- or maybe not instinct but, rather, protocol. Regardless, something wells up inside of her, something cold and calculated and as hard as steel. It pushes against her rib cage and pulls all doubt, all emotion from her mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand latches around Sasha's wrist and the next thing she knows they're in the carriage waiting at the base of the prison and she's halfway through barking orders at the frontman.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows how they got there, how they walked down the stairs and she shot the Warden a dirty look when he tried to open his mouth to say something about taking his highest-profile prisoner. She knows that Sasha had tried to say something multiple times on the way and she'd ignored every attempt. She knows that her lieutenant gave her a brief of the exact situation-- a two-pronged attack, one on the east wall the other on the west-- but all of it washed over her like a tidal wave, never really stopping in time for her to process it. It's only once they're in the privacy of the carriage car that her brain manages to catch up with her body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She releases her grip on Sasha’s arm only to find a red handprint in its place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before she left, back in the prison, Anne had accused her of having some sort of mood-swing thing going on. They hadn’t had the time nor the mental energy to actually dig into that particular comment at the time, but suddenly Marcy feels like they probably should have. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t remember the exact wording, but the phrase ‘soldier’ rattles around in her head like a clapper in a bell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her spine is still as stiff as aboard, her hands, now pulled from Sasha’s arm, rest in her lap, perfectly crossed and an exact mirror of her lieutenant across from her in the carriage. Her face is a mask of perfect indifference and when she speaks her voice comes out so level it hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do we have an idea of the numbers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t miss the way that Sasha twitches</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lieutenant’s eyes snap to hers, clearly not expecting another round of conversation, though that shouldn’t be surprising at this point. Marcy always likes to have all her cards on the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“1500 on the east, 800 on the west.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s hands ball into fists and, before she can stop herself, turns to face Sasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks unnerved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s in the tilt of her brows, the shrinking of her pupils, the tightness of her shoulders, the trembling in her hands...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a deer caught in the headlights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or a kicked puppy dragged around on its leash.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No- </span>
  </em>
  <span>something argues, something that is still hot and angry and grieving-</span>
  <em>
    <span> she is not a puppy. She is not blameless. She is not the victim.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, when Marcy speaks some of the ice melts from her tone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How many soldiers does Grime have?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She just keeps staring at her with that unnerved expression, her eyes slowly taking on a distant quality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hits her then that, if they were using Sasha as collateral against Grime-- assuming he cared enough about her that he’d withhold an attack for fear of her getting hurt-- what was to say that care went only one way?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And this… this was war. War where Marcy was basically asking Sasha to choose between her loyalties.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her loyalty should be to Anne, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that hot thing hisses, </span>
  <em>
    <span>her loyalty should not be something you need to question.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Marcy knows that just like Anne and just like herself how easy it is to get invested in this world and the people in it. How easy it is to tie yourself to a cause without entirely knowing its purpose or its ideology. She is the commander of an Army that she didn’t know the structure of when she first got the job. She is single-handedly responsible for a great number of Newtopia’s recent renovations and all of that comes from her inability to remain impartial. Because she decided to care about Newtopia without regard to what that might mean in the future.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Can she blame Sasha for doing the same?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She switches focus.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s the damage?” she turns back to her lieutenant and though their expression is still carefully blank she can sense the disapproval. Part of her, the part that is fully invested in Newtopia agrees with them, but the other part, the one that remembers </span>
  <em>
    <span>“did I do something wrong?” “Maybe.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> won’t let her act on it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’ve taken sectors 10 and 9, and are working on sector 5. The General has already sent seven companies to try and push back the line on sector 10.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy curses under her breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Casualties?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“7 confirmed, more expected.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any officers?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re heading to Command Central?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Affirmative.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy nods to herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are we looking in sector 5?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Last I heard there were 5 companies there, more on the way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s going to spread our perimeter too th-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Four-thousand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s teeth click shut as she whips her head to the left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha has drawn her knees up to her chest and her eyes still have that vacant quality to them, but she definitely spoke. Her lips are still trembling. She doesn’t look at her when she repeats herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Grime has four-thousand units... including air-support.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sucks in a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He has what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long, tense moment Sasha doesn’t respond. Then she hangs her head, the bones of her spine stick out like a dragon’s scales.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Air-support… Dragonflies… and mounted crossbows.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy can feel the blood leaving her face. She looks up at her lieutenant who looks equally pale.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any sign of that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...no.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy begins rummaging through the carriage looking for any sort of parchment and/or paper. Her lieutenant hands her a quill, and though writing in a moving carriage isn’t ideal it isn’t the first time she’s had to do it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...what are you...?” Sasha’s voice is hoarse, but Marcy doesn’t have the time nor the patience to dwell on that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bow!” She barks and is handed the object seconds later. Quickly, she rips off a strip of her shirt and ties the roll of parchment to the arrow before notching it and leaning out the side of the carriage to shoot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she draws back the bowstring it finally hits her just how far she’s come. She can shoot a bow, she knows how to strategize, she knows a trap when she sees one, and she’s confident enough in herself to send orders to the General instead of just following theirs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets the arrow fly and watches as it arches over the rooftops towards the palace until it disappears from sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The streets are eerily quiet, not a Newt in sight, and she can just barely make out the orange glow of fires along the distant wall. Evacuation, she knows. All civilians would’ve been relocated to the inner sectors by now, but it's still frightening to see the normally vibrant streets suddenly empty and devoid of life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to have to skip the armoury,” her lieutenant mutters once she’s been reseated. Marcy nods her agreement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll make do with what’s on hand in CC.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lieutenant frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And her?” They point to Sasha who still looks like she swallowed something particularly unpleasant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She flinches at being addressed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wells up in Marcy’s chest, and once she knows it's there, it’s impossible to ignore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She stays with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Protectiveness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy wakes up with a pounding in her skull and the taste of gravel in her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything feels heavy and sluggish, her vision is little more than muddy shapes swimming through the slits of her eyes, the ground trembles beneath her prone body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wait, why is she laying on the floor?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s supposed to be going somewhere, somewhere important…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What was it again?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands find purchase on the ground, but when she goes to push herself up a blinding pain wracks her body. Light flashes around her, her entire spine is on fire and her right leg feels like someone is twisting it inside of its socket. A cry spills from her lips, tearing through her throat and sending a violent rattling cough following it. Her face reacquaints itself with the stone beneath it and she becomes suddenly, painfully, aware of something wet and sticky pooling beneath her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What happened?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t remember, all she knows is that she’s in pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a ringing in her ears, loud and high-pitched and piercing. It takes a good few minutes for her to even muster up the strength to force her eyes open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world is in ruins, splotches of brick and mortar, the remnants of buildings hollowed out from some sort of blast. Just a few feet away is the broken burned remains of what was once a carriage, the shattered wheel laid on its side. Flames lick at objects in the corners of her vision, never still enough for her to get a good look at their source. The sky has turned an ashen grey, whether from clouds or smoke she can’t tell, though she can taste both rain and ash on her breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a shadow before her. Limbs long and tall as it stands, moving and gesticulating wildly. It takes much too long for her to realize she recognizes the shadow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are like two bruises embedded deep in her skull and her sweater leaves her looking small, but the shadows of the fire paint her as more like a skeletal demon than a bag of bones that could be knocked over with a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s clutching what looks like a pipe in one hand, the other spread before her as she shouts. All Marcy can hear is that high-pitched whining but she can see her teeth catch the light, jaw moving viciously up and down as her shoulders heave with the effort of producing sound.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the edges of Marcy’s vision large shapes bob, but she can’t quite make them out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, carefully, Marcy presses her hands against the concrete to try and push herself up again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s slow going and extremely painful, but patience breeds perseverance and that always goes rewarded. She makes it to her elbows, then her left knee, then slowly eases herself backwards until she’s mostly upright. A heavy numbness has descended over her and the pain becomes an afterthought. There’s something wrong with her right leg, she can’t feel it or move it and everything in that area is pervaded with something hot and wet. Vaguely she thinks it might be broken, but the thought only registers for a moment and then it's gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head feels like boiling soup, occasionally there are glimpses of something that might be solid, a thought that crystalizes for just a moment, but it’s snatched away, leaving behind only a bubbling broth she can’t see through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Does that even make sense?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-don’t fucking care! Just back off!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, the ringing is gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes more effort than it should to raise her head towards the sound, but once she does she finds that the shapes have gotten closer and Sasha is now holding the pipe with both hands, brandishing it much like a club.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shapes-- no, blobs-- no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toads</span>
  </em>
  <span>, look perplexed. Marcy isn’t sure how she can read the facial expressions of vaguely anthropomorphic frog people, but she gets the nagging suspicion that shouldn’t be her first concern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-ut Sasha -ease!” One of the Toads calls--</span>
  <em>
    <span> toads can talk??</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- but Sasha just turns to point her pipe at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not kidding around, Percy!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another Toad takes a step forward and Sasha spins to face them. She stumbles somewhat and Marcy can’t help but sympathize.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kid, I think you need to calm-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going back with Grime!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the world. Everything comes to such a sharp and dramatic standstill that for a moment Marcy thinks she’s imagining it. But no, the fire is still casting warping, twisting shadows and there are still large booms and shouting in the distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words cut through the stillness like a knife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The approaching Toad isn’t any taller than the others, nor any larger, but his armour looks at least twice as thick and one of his eyes has a glassy blue sheen. The surrounding Toads give him a wide berth as he strolls leisurely through their ranks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t miss how Sasha’s grip seems to get tighter on the pipe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll admit when you went missing I had my suspicions,” his voice is low, low and gravelly and rough like someone spent a few days choking down bags of gravel and then picked up smoking for the next thirty years. It grates on her ears and sends unpleasant shivers down her spine. He continues his approach until he stands about eight feet in front of Sasha, his brow-- if you could call it that-- lowers in a disapproving scowl so intense she can feel the years being taken off her life. “But I deigned to give you the benefit of the doubt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s lips pull back from her teeth in an awfully animalistic sneer. Her facial features have always been sharp but with the added rigidity of malnourishment, she looks remarkably lupine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, that was your second mistake.” The words are dry, all things considered. There’s no anger in her tone, no charged emotion at all really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s unsettling, especially considering how much Sasha is known for her temper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Toad, Grime if she had to guess, gives his own sneer and if his face weren’t so round it’d be a perfect mirror of Sasha’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, girl, what was my first?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A challenge. Sasha has always been good at challenges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Making me choose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment, a brief moment, where Grime looks taken aback. Maybe even startled, but it disappears just as quickly as it comes. He reaches to his belt and closes a hand around the grip of his sword.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is war, child. I thought you understood that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha laughs but there is no amusement in the sound. It is dry and empty and cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I understand plenty,” she starts and, somehow, takes a step forward. “I understand that the only reason we started working together was because I was beneficial to you. I understand that the only reason you even have an army to begin with was because I was there making them like you, making them trust you. Without me, you’d still be a sad little sack of mucus sitting alone in an abandoned windmill.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sasha is familiar. Marcy’s head might hurt a little too much to piece it together fully, but she knows it’s important, that it’s significant </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sasha showed up now. That she hasn’t been around in a while.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime’s face contorts but Sasha doesn’t let up. She keeps advancing on him and, perhaps surprising to Marcy most of all, he takes a step back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I trained you,” he argues, “I gave you purpose!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So did I!” Sasha shouts back. “Who was there for you after the Tower fell? After everyone left you? Who picked up your stupid fucking broken pieces and put you back together?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something has changed in Sasha’s posture. Something has shifted. She’s standing taller, her grip on the pipe is more sure. Her steps are level and graceful like a cat stalking its prey.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime steps away and the two begin to circle each other. Sasha’s pipe is still brandished like a weapon, but Grime keeps his sword sheathed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did the same-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you didn’t. You complained about my every word if it didn’t help you, you never listened to me unless you thought you’d benefit from it-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I listened to you moan about that Anne girl for months-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You told me to kill her!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clearly, I should’ve done it myself!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They freeze. Sasha’s back to Marcy once more. She sucks in a breath and her shoulders rise up to her ears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... what…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two heads snap towards her and suddenly Marcy realizes that came from her own mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime’s expression slowly, ever so grotesquely, morphs into a smile so sharp it could kill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Sasha…” he says and his voice is suddenly soft. Saccharine. Sympathetic. Maybe even apologetic. Sasha, though she’s still looking at Marcy, goes rigid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that tone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me you found another one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hands tighten on the pipe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... Grime…” She says it like a warning but she’s shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps this can be a learning opportunity,” His voice is light now, casual. He knows he’s already won. “About what happens when you disobey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, he pulls his sword from his belt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I’ve been very lenient with you, Sasha, and that was because you had earned my respect, but clearly I’ve been too soft.” He scrapes the tip against the concrete and Marcy can’t help but curl a bit in on herself. “Let this be a lesson that I will not make the same mistake again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lunges, deceptively fast for a creature so large. His feet kick off from the ground with enough force to send him sailing towards her, but he hardly makes it more than a few steps before the heavy metallic thunk of Sasha’s pipe becomes acquainted with his stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are a bright burning fuschia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere in the back of Marcy’s mind, she gets the feeling that is significant as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stumbles back, though he doesn’t look mad. If anything, he looks thrilled. That large, grotesque grin never left his face and now he throws back his head for a loud, wheezing laugh to match.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s my girl!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lunges again, but this time his strike is not intended for Marcy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is a chaotic dance, one that she could probably follow better if her head didn’t still feel like someone was repeatedly clobbering her over the head with a hammer. As it is it looks more like two brown blurs occasionally colliding and departing from one another, loud grunts and shouts ringing out in their wake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime is all heavy swings and blunt cuts, going for a quick and violent end to the bout. Sasha is smaller and uses her size to her advantage, dodging in and out of his range with a grace that would seem otherworldly even if she didn’t look like a light breeze would send her flying. Her eyes remain that bright colour though, striking through the smoke and shadows like twin miniature flames mounted inside of her skull. Her weapon is blunted and so rather than going for the cuts that Grime is she takes for landing violent pokes and whacks after one-another, making loud connections that are sure to leave bruises for the next few days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime is older, however, and much more experienced. Magic or no magic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He catches one of Sasha’s swings with an outstretched hand and Sasha just has time to scream, “FUCK!” before she’s thrown. She lands in a heap in front of Marcy. Something makes a sickening crunching noise on impact.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head is still swimming, and she can barely get a coherent thought to materialize, but her hand reaches out without her input and rests on Sasha’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grime stands, heaving, and lets out a triumphant laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve grown weak over your stay.” He chides, stepping over the discarded pipe like it was never a threat to begin with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha sits up, slow and wheezing all the while. When she makes it to her knees she looks up at Grime and spits a clod of something red at his feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not the only one who grieves like a little bitch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His smile falls, that disapproving scowl in place once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to give you a week in the hole,” he hisses, “just to make sure the lesson sticks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sword comes down with all the force of a guillotine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blood sprays across Marcy’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happens so fast she barely sees it. Barely even comprehends what even happened. One moment, Grime is swinging a killing blow, the next his own sword is impaled into his good eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha caught it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She caught the blade. With her bare hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her right hand, to be more exact, which is only hanging onto itself by bone and a few stubborn bands of muscle. Cut right into the palm, blood-splattered up over the fingers and down the wrist, flowing down like a river unbidden. A dam that has broken for the world to see as tides of blood drip to the floor and light, hysterical laughter flows from its owner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She caught the blade and used the force of its own trajectory to wrench the grip from Grime’s hand before shoving it into Grime’s face, pommel first. He falls to his knees but it doesn’t matter because Sasha is laughing. Head thrown back, blood dripping down her hand as she presses it against her temple, leaving the red stain to fall down her face as well. She laughs and laughs and laughs, teeth bared to an unforgiving sky as it lets out its first clap of thunder and the rain begins to pour down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The surrounding Toads back away, something between horror and awe written in their faces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere deep in Marcy’s muddled brain something whispers about the Toads being a culture that respected strength over all else, but it’s gone before she can even think to voice it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lightning flashes overhead and between that and the dancing flames Sasha looks like a demon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A monster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes gleam with their own light (pink, but bordering on crimson with its intensity) but the surrounding flesh is so dark it's nearly black. Her sunken cheeks, the bloody right side of her face, and distant flames create a distorted shadow that hides the majority of her face so that you can just barely make out the edge of her jaw and her teeth as they glint in the lightning. The front of her sweater has been ripped apart so it hangs over her shoulder loosely like a pair of tattered wings. A long thin red gash starts just below her collarbone and ends just above her navel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks like a monster.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t know why that makes something inside of her chest itch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know a lot of things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that this is bad, that whatever is going on is going to end badly for them but she can’t figure out exactly why, nor find it within herself to care. Thunder cracks overhead once again and this time it doesn’t seem to end. If anything it continues ringing until it’s all she can hear. Until it’s rattling around, crackling inside of her skull.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lifts a hand t press it against her temple, but without its support the world suddenly lurches to the right. She’s on the ground before she realizes she even lost balance. Her skin feels wet and cold and it sticks uncomfortably to the ground beneath her. Her eyes are open, but she can’t make sense of what is before them anymore, it’s just a tidal wave of colour. Greys and browns and reds and oranges and pink all melding together until a kaleidoscope of shapes looks back at her and her eyes start to feel like overinflated balloons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She presses them shut to try and relieve the pain but the next time she opens them the world has changed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s dark now, and a face is hovering over her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-ith me. Marc- you hea- e? Ma- M- Stay wi- St- awake-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hearing pulses. In and out, in and out, snatches of words, the mouth on the face is moving but she can’t make sense of it, can’t make sense of anything. She can’t even recognize the face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“M- ar- Mar- cy- Marcy!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world goes dark.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ok, before you start screaming at me, a couple things:</p><p>1. Congrats! You made it through the worst of it! I'm not kidding this time, that's the worst of it. </p><p>2. I'm doing fine now, thanks for all the well wishes! It was a pretty mild case of covid but my lungs were already pretty shitty so it knocked me out for a few weeks. Thank you again, and I promise I'll be kinder to you guys in the next couple chapters. Also, I wanted to thank you guys for all the love and support you've given me through this, I wouldn't have gotten through it if it weren't for you. Here's to... oh god. 11000... soon to be 12000 reads... jesus.... Ok, well see y'all later!</p><p>- Reyna</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Loose Ends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>~🦎~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sound is the first thing that Marcy is aware of. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One of them is unconscious and the other just got over having a nervous breakdown, neither of them are in a state to talk to anyone and if he doesn’t stop sending messengers I am going to send him one of my own, and trust me when I say I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be as polite!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sound that she is intimately familiar with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“L-Lady Anne the King understands-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, he doesn’t! In fact, I’m beginning to believe that none of you understand one very important little detail!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vaguely, Marcy becomes aware of a light. It is faint, barely even visible but with all the energy she can muster she swims towards it. Somewhere to her right, there is the sound of armour shifting, the faint squeak of metal against metal. Distantly, she can hear similar noises, though it is under the current of many voices and bodies moving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We are children!” The light is getting closer, she can start to make out shapes against it. Something moves across her vision and she can hear the sound of something impacting against metal. “We aren’t even old enough to drink! What the hell makes him think we're old enough to be fighting his wars?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“L-Lady Anne-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No! I don’t care! Whatever fucked up reasoning he has is wrong! We are children! She is a child! Both of them are, and I refuse to let you people keep treating them like soldiers!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If he wants to talk about the Calamity Box, go get Hop-Pop. I am done. We all are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a beat of silence and Marcy finally manages to pry her eyelids apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne is standing in the doorway of a tent made of faded white tarps and what look like improvised supports (a couple appear to be spears, the third a discarded sewer pipe, and a fourth looks like a Newtopian flag-pole that had been planted into the ground flag-first). For the most part, she looks exactly as Marcy last saw her, with the added accessories of a set of familiar-looking Newtopian-Coral armour, and a couple blotches of soot and dirt clinging to her cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s got her hand planted against the chest-plate of the Newtopian guard-- judging by the particular style and colours of his uniform, likely from the palace-- and is all but shoving him back through the tent flap despite his considerable size advantage over her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy watches, detached almost, as Anne gives one last great heave and actually manages to topple the Newt out of the tent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can tell Andrias where to stick it!” She shouts after him, leaning so far out the front of the tent that her left leg has left the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a funny enough image: Anne leant so far forward that her upper half isn’t even visible with one leg sticking out behind her, still wearing that poor ragged sock that has somehow managed to cling on for dear life throughout the entire time she’s been in Amphibia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy can’t help but laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It must come as a shock because Anne jumps almost a full four feet into the air before making an impressive ‘oof’ when she collides with the ground once more, stomach first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That just makes Marcy laugh louder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne is on her feet and at Marcy’s side in less than ten seconds, but it takes another thirty for Marcy to stop laughing and by that point she has tears streaming down her face as well. Her vision is blurry when she finally pries her eyes open, but Anne’s face is hovering mere inches from her. Brows furrowed together in worry so clear the tears don’t matter at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy tries to reach up and wipe them away, just so she can reassure Anne that she’s fine, but the moment her shoulders move a spike of pain goes thrumming down her spine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes snap shut as a hiss leaves her lips teeth clamped tightly together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pressure touches the side of her face, carefully smoothing against her furrowed brow. She lets herself relax, slowly, each muscle going limp one after another. It takes a couple of minutes for her to open her eyes once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some of the worry has left Anne’s expression, replaced with a fondness so potent Marcy’s surprised it isn’t solid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She opens her mouth to speak but gets a mouthful of Anne’s hair before she can. Her arms are solid around her shoulders and, if nothing else, it is nice to be held.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You scared the hell out of me,” she whispers against her left ear and a shiver crawls its way down her neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s hands slowly snake their way up and around Anne’s shoulders, finding comfort in the familiar curve of her spine. It’s only been a couple of weeks since their night in Anne’s hotel room, but it feels closer to months. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Has it been months?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Frantically, Marcy tries to recall the exact amount of time and comes up empty. She knows how long it was before…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before the attack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The attack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With almost no warning Marcy tries to sit up. The muscles in her spine go taut and she catapults forwards, but the weight of Anne is an unexpected variable she did not account for. All she gets is a couple of inches off the mattress before Anne lets out a surprised squeak and a violent spark of pain goes rocketing down her spine. She crashes back down, a woosh of air escaping her, and Anne all but falls on top of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t a violent collision, but it’s enough to give Marcy a ringing in her ears. Or maybe it was already there and she just didn’t realize.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne pushes herself back up and lets out a soft, throaty chuckle that is a bit too close to a sob for Marcy’s liking. When she looks down at her though, she’s smiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry…” Marcy manages to grumble out, but her throat feels as dry as a desert. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne seems to notice-- or guess-- her plight and a cup is quickly pressed into her hand. She brings it to her lips, thankful for the colourful straw sticking out the top so she doesn’t have to try and sit up again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I should be apologizing to you,” Anne whispers as Marcy drinks and all she manages is a confused grunt in reply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne snorts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Slow down before you drown yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy makes another grunt, this one somewhat more garbled than the first, and takes a last few stubborn gulps of water just for emphasis. Eventually, Anne pulls the cup away herself and Marcy offers her most convincing grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’re you feeling?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy takes in a breath and takes stock of her body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head and back are sore, but no stabbing pain unless she tries to move too suddenly, and she can move each of her fingers and the toes on her left foot. Her right foot remains motionless, but she expected that. The rubble from the carriage hadn’t been light and, while a good portion of what happened after the wreck is fuzzy she remembers the numbing pain and the wet sticky-ness that had pervaded her thoughts. Well, that and--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Sasha?!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words tear themselves from her lips before she can even formulate them in her mind, and she watches as several different expressions flash over Anne’s face. Surprise, followed by something like guilt, quickly masked over with a careful neutrality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s…” she trails off, audibly swallowing. Her eyes wander towards the tent-flap before flickering back over to Marcy. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth. “She’s gonna be fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A weight drops in her stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... What the hell does that mean?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne avoids her gaze. Slowly, she sinks down to sit on Marcy’s bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne…?” Marcy whispers, startled somewhat by the sudden rush of something dangerously close to worry bubbling in the pit of her stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Anne notices she says nothing, she’s too busy picking at the bedsheets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Plantars and I got back just as everything was going down…” she mutters, still not meeting Marcy’s gaze. “We didn’t really get to see any of the fighting, just the aftermath. When we found you and Sasha…” she trails off. Once again, she catches her bottom lip between her teeth and starts biting down on it until the skin turns white. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost like it has a mind of its own, Marcy’s hand crawls its way across the bed to rest against Anne’s. Anne wastes no time lacing their fingers together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... there was a lot of blood…” she’s whispering, “You were unconscious and Sasha was… almost completely catatonic.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s fuzzy, the memory, but it is there. Sasha standing over the body of what might’ve been a father figure, blood streaming down both her face and hands, laughter wracking her body in violent crescendos and ensuing diminuendos.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tries to reconcile that with the girl who just an hour prior had been throwing pawns at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We took you both back to the medical tents that the Newtopian Military had set up and, well… she’s doing better, I think, but she hasn’t said a word since…” Anne looks troubled and concerned, and so very, very tired. It’s an expression that Marcy is intimately familiar with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need to go talk to-” Marcy is already starting to push herself into what might be considered a sitting position, but Anne just shakes her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What you need to do is rest.” there’s an edge to her voice, like she’s gearing up for a fight, “You have a concussion, Marcy-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“King Andrias needs my judgement-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“King Andrias can go suck his own dick!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy makes it all the way up in the bed if only because so much adrenaline is now pouring through her veins it could kill a cow. She can physically feel her heart attempting a mad escape through her throat as she casts a look at Anne she’s sure looks like a scandalized church mother who just found out her eldest son is gay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne doesn’t even look surprised by what she said, or affected by it at all. In fact, her eyes narrow as she casts a glare that Marcy can only describe as venomous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He can suck his own big, stupid, fat, fucking-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who the living hell are you and what have you done with Anne?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well now Anne’s face is just flat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought we already established I’m just as capable of cursing as you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not like that!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne rolls her eyes hard enough to pop a blood vessel. It’s a remarkably Sasha-like motion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy I’m fourteen, not five.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But-but,” Marcy splutters,  “but you’re Anne!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve also spent the last several months running for my life at least once a day-- usually more than that-- and recently lost my dominant hand, so excuse me if foul language has stopped seeming like such a big deal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She supposes she has a point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay... well, regardless, I still need to-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh for the love of-” Anne cuts herself off with a sigh, “Marcy you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do anything-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He needs me!” She protests and something cold and fragile and buzzing has crawled its way up into the hollow of her throat. “They all need me! Look, okay, I did what you asked. I took a break while you were gone, Sasha can vouch for that. Now Newtopia is all but in ruins and it’s my responsibility as the Captain of the Newtopian Knight guard-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But it shouldn’t be!” Anne is agitated. More than that, she looks… desperate. Her hand shakes when she uses it to gesture. She stands and paces in an anxious circle.“You-you’re not even old enough to work at McDonald’s, you shouldn’t be commanding an army!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something like offence makes her face run hot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am perfectly capable of-” she starts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not about capability-” Anne tries to make a surrendering gesture but Marcy isn’t having it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then if it’s about age, it doesn’t matter! Newts don’t age at the same rate as humans, I’m older than a lot of the people I work with-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make me feel better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you aren’t in charge of me so-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care if I’m in charge of you, you still shouldn’t be-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne, I can handle myself.” Her teeth are pressing together. Anne looks like she’s trying so very hard not to cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have to! It isn’t your responsibility to fix all of their problems-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I can help it’s my duty to, don’t you see?” she feels that they’ve had this conversation before, or at least something very similar. “They need me, Andrias needs me, Sasha needs me-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what about you?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t matter!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne takes a step back like she’s been punched. Her eyes are the size of baseballs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... Marcy…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s true,” she spits the words and, while she’s never said them before, never voiced them, never even allowed herself to think them, she knows they’ve been festering for a very, very long time. “That’s why you and Sasha hung out with me back home, right? Not because you liked me, but because I was useful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s frozen. Staring at her with horror and hurt and Marcy hates it. She hates it because she can’t tell if there’s guilt there too or not. She supposes it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “That’s fine, I get it. I’m not like you two. I’m not good with people, or frogs, or newts or whatever, but I’m good at everything else. I can help, I have to help because that’s what I’m good for. That’s the only reason anyone keeps me around. King Andrias needs me, not as Marcy, but as Captain of the Knight Guard. He needs a soldier, and I can be a soldier. Sasha needs me as a caretaker, and I can be a caretaker. You need me as a friend, so I can be a friend. That’s what I’m good for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s all I’m good for.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stares at her for a long, tense moment. The only sound is that of the outside world. The tent is just a tent, after all, and there is nothing to keep out the hubbub of a post-battle military camp. Feet shuffle by, voices talk, shout, argue, and laugh. Someone is crying, someone else is telling the story of how they fought off a couple of the invading Toads.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hate it when you do this.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s head bows. Her hand falls to her side and clenches into a fist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Anne finally looks back up her eyes are wet with tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When you just… turn yourself off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says it softly, matter-of-factly. Like there is no room for doubt or criticism or confusion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy somehow still manages to find it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It means I care about you, stupid.” It’s still soft, even if she’s shaking as she says it, “and I don’t like it when you do this to yourself. Who cares about what Andrias needs, or Sasha needs, or-- god-forbid-- I need? That was the whole reason I left, because I didn’t want to be needed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes in a breath and then, with what looks like a split-second decision, she lowers herself to her knees at the edge of Marcy’s bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes her hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want, Marcy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… I need-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not what someone else needs. What do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head hurts and her spine aches and her hands are trembling at her sides. Her mouth feels so very, very dry and sweat is soaking down the back of her neck. She wants to stop hurting, wants to stop feeling so painfully empty, wants to stop feeling like she’s constantly lugging around the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wants to cry, wants to scream at the world for being so unfair and putting the three of them in a world where their only options for survival were to grow up as fast as humanly possible. She wants to go back to the times when she would chase Sasha and Anne through the playground, to when they’d spend their Friday nights at each other's houses and try their hardest not to fall asleep, always failing in the end. She wants to wake up with Anne’s hair in her mouth, elbow buried in her ribs, laughter just moments away when she wakes up and realizes the position they’ve ended up in. She wants…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wants Anne.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That is the realization that hits her square in the chest, that whacks her over the head with all the force of a freight train and leaves her gasping for breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wants… she likes… she…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That… explains a lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s still looking up at her, still has tear-tracks on her cheeks, but her eyes are hardened with a determination that lets her know she’s not going to get away without giving an answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy doesn’t think she can-- nor does she want to-- put into words the sudden warmth rushing towards her cheeks. Or that the frantic, panicked fluttering bursting forth from her stomach and into her throat would let her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So instead she looks down at the hand laid atop hers. Anne’s single, undamaged hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tugs on it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne lets her. Lets her pull her up until she’s halfway to a standing position and Marcy wraps her arms around her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Romance wasn’t really Marcy’s jam, but she’s read her own fair share of fanfiction. Anne doesn’t smell like anything. Not cedar, or pine, or sandalwood, or anything like that. She just smells like Anne. A little bit sweaty from the heat, a lot like mildew from months of having only one or two sets of clothes and little access to laundry, and with a distinct hint of whatever Hop-Pop mixes into the lye soap he and the Plantars use.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she’s warm and she’s soft and Marcy’s heart might be trying to make a run for it, but it is contained if only by the sheer amount of relief crashing over her shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne is hugging her back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pressure is building behind Marcy’s eyes and for once she lets it go. She doesn’t even try to hold it in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s head is resting atop hers and she has never, ever felt more loved than she does now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~🐸~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marcy’s awake…” she mutters absently, not really expecting a reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t get one, of course, but Sasha’s right brow twitches just slightly. That’s more than she’s seen out of her in days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne and the Planters had arrived back in Newtopia just as everything went to shit. Not quite early enough to be of any help, but just late enough to watch as the entirety of what was left of the Toad Army came marching out the front gates surrounded by Newtopian forces on all sides. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It turned out that the Toad Army wasn’t much without their leader and, though she wasn’t exactly super informed on the details of just what Sasha had done to Grime, he wasn’t going to be a problem any time soon. Without him, they’d been quick to surrender and even quicker to beg for any shred of forgiveness that wouldn’t result in their immediate and swift execution. The result had been… complicated. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne was still avidly trying to avoid getting wrapped up in the complex political structure that Newtopia had, but the gist of it seemed that the noble houses were divided on just how to proceed with reconstruction as well as punishment. The battle hadn’t completely levelled the city, but a lot of Newt lives had been lost. A great deal more than Toads.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The public wasn’t going to be quick to forget that, no matter what punishment was agreed upon in the still-going peace talks Anne had been fighting to be kept out of. (To keep all three of them out of. She may have been the only Human standing, but that didn’t stop Andrias from sending messengers every other hour to check on the progress of the other two.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha had hardly spoken a word since they’d found her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least when she’d been in the Prison she’d had some fight left in her, could still hold her own in a verbal sparring match if the guard’s reports on Marcy’s visits were to be believed. Now it was like even that had left her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne had heard the reports of her not being able to eat, but as far as she could tell she did it without complaint when she brought her meals. She didn’t say anything when Anne had to practically hold her upright for the nurses to change her out of the clothes that had been destroyed in whatever altercation she’d had with Grime. She didn’t even flinch when Anne changed her bandages every couple of hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was just…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Empty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despondent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a porcelain doll or a puppet on strings, she’d move if you moved her, but had no responses of her own. She wouldn’t even stand, just lay in bed every time Anne came to see her, staring sightlessly at the canvas ceiling. Her eyes were so cold and dead and empty that they physically hurt to look at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another couple moments of silence pass as Anne goes about removing the old bandages from Sasha’s chest. As she sets them down and pulls up the tin of medicated cream the Newtopian nurses had given her for this, Sasha lets out a sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now that’s progress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy’s fine,” Anne assures and gets a disbelieving grunt for her trouble, “well maybe not fine, but she’s doing better than I thought she’d be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another beat of silence. Anne finishes applying the salve and starts unrolling some more strips of gauze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We had a talk about… well you know how she is,” Anne lets out her own version of a rueful laugh, “if she could she’d be up on her feet and in Andrias’s council room the moment she opened her eyes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha lets out another exhale, this one less of a sigh and more of a snort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne smiles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy was doing pretty good all things considered. When they’d found her she’d looked half-dead, caked with her own blood and pale from the loss of it. Some had been from a frighteningly deep gash on her head, but most of it had been from the crushed, pulpy mess that had once been her right leg.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d dragged her in on a stretcher and she’d hung there, lifeless, as Doctors tried to fuss over her. Lights shone into eyes that had to be pried open, fingers fluttering for a pulse, and shouting for potions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy had told her (more like shouted at her) about the fear that had taken over her body when she’d had to carry Anne back from the sewers. Anne had thought she understood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She did not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The terror that gripped her heart at that moment-- as a Newtopian doctor frantically shoved the neck of a bottle with a dark blue substance within it into Marcy’s mouth and then plugged her nose so she’d be forced to swallow-- was like nothing she’d ever felt before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s whole body had seized and trembled, having to be held down by several soldiers. By the time she was done sweat caked her forehead and the bottle was empty. A dim blue light emitted from the place where the flesh of her leg turned to the raw, disgustingly meat-like pulp, slowly making its way down it, knitting the skin back together as it went.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne had to leave to throw up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy would walk again, she’d been told after the fact, but she’d need a brace… and a prosthetic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t seemed particularly surprised when Anne told her that, however. All she’d done was shrug and let out something like a rueful laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I guess we’ll all match, then.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All things said though, Marcy was in pretty high spirits for someone who just found out she didn’t have a right foot any more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t like it didn’t happen, Marcy was slow and sluggish and got lightheaded if she moved too suddenly, but once they’d gotten all of their worried shouting out of their systems the rest of Anne’s visit went smoothly. They hugged, they talked, they laughed. Anne assured Marcy that everything was going to be okay and while she might only half-believe that she really, really hopes it will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’ve already lost too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches as Sasha brings her right hand into her lap, gently massaging the wrappings over the place where her knuckles once were. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I take it that ‘break’ I asked her to take wasn’t as much of a break as she’d like me to believe?” Anne prompts, gentle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long, intense moment Sasha doesn’t respond. Then, with what looks like great difficulty, she drags her gaze up to settle Anne with a flat look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Anne mutters, “I figured as much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That gets another snort out of her and she releases her grip on her right hand, if only so she can gently grab Anne’s guiding it up to settle the gauze on her sternum.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne recognizes the reminder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m working on it, be patient. I’m doing this one-handed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If possible, Sasha’s expression flattens further. Anne rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m allowed to make jokes at my own expense, just like you’re allowed to be a pouty-puss.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The face Sasha makes now is closer to indignant. She releases Anne’s hand just so she can shove her own into Anne’s face, nearly knocking her out of her chair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne laughs and the sound is so startling she almost claps her hand to her face to try and stop it. She doesn’t, but it is a near thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead she straightens back in her chair and sticks her tongue out in Sasha’s direction. For the barest of moments Sasha’s lips curl into what might be a smile, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s progress, at least.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne finishes changing Sasha’s bandages without any further interruptions. It’s only as she’s putting the salve and bandages back in their designated drawer that Sasha gives any more indications of life: a hand on her wrist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne blinks and glances up at Sasha’s face. Her eyes are still downcast, not daring to meet hers, but she can make out something glittering on their surface. Tears, she realizes belatedly, as a few slip down her cheeks unbidden.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne feels like the entire planet just tilted ninety degrees to the right. The salve and bandages clatter to the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh-wha- I- huh-?!” Anne splutters, but the hand on her wrist doesn’t release. Sasha still doesn’t lift her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” She says once more. Her voice is hoarse, though from what is anyone’s guess. “I… I never apologized for…” she trails off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne can’t help but stare at Sasha like she’s grown a second head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You… are you sure you…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha nods her head, though Anne can only see the top of it. A few more tears make it down her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne just stares. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Had she really not…? No. No, that’s not true.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, gently, Anne lowers herself to her knees, trying to catch Sasha’s downcast gaze and taking her singular hand in her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, look at me,” she urges, gentle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha does. Anne squeezes her hand reassuringly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve apologized enough.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha opens her mouth to protest but Anne just shakes her head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t say the words,” she acquiesces, “but you made it plenty clear through your actions.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s brows furrow, a protest is still sitting on her tongue. Anne sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, you and I both know you’re not the best at being… sincere…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha winces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But!” Anne interrupts, “that’s with your words. You’ve always been an ‘act first, talk later,’ person. I know how to read you, Sash, I knew you were sorry the moment you showed up at the hospital.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne offers her best, most reassuring smile. Sasha stares.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she shakes her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne feels as if she’s just been slapped across the face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sasha repeats. “That’s not good enough. I should’ve-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” Sasha shouts. She rips her hand from Anne’s grasp and uses it to make a large, frustrated gesture. Anne’s teeth click shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t give me a free pass! Don’t excuse my actions! I fucked up, okay? I did, so stop fucking brushing it under the rug. Stop treating it like it didn’t happen!” The tears are flowing freely now, and </span>
  <span>Sasha’s voice shakes. “I hurt you! I know I did and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne can’t help but stare, a strange pressure building in her throat and trying its damndest to get loose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you already-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I what?!” Sasha pleads, “shouted at you? Begged you to make it even? Asked you to hurt me just to make myself feel better? What did I do that came off as an apology? Crept into your room with a sword halfway between turning myself in and trying to kill you? That’s not good enough!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha you don’t have to-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just shut up!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s good hand wraps itself in the fabric of Anne’s shirt and she’s startled when she’s all but wrenched up from her knees. Sasha’s breath tastes bitter on her lips. Her eyes glint in the sudden shadow of Anne’s hair, a strange pink light flaring in their depths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I fucked up, don’t you dare let me off the hook. You deserve better than that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Up close Anne can make out the minuscule dent in Sasha’s nose from a break that never healed properly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You deserve better, Anne.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a full five minutes for Anne to finally kick her brain back into gear. It’s only then that she recognizes that the pressure is no longer in her throat and her face is wet. Sasha is no longer holding her by the collar, instead, she has her arms wrapped tightly around her waist and her head buried in her shoulder. Anne’s arms have wrapped around Sasha instinctively, but her head is still risen, eyes set on some point in the distance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels so very, very tired, but it's the good kind of tired. The kind of tired you feel after a day of long, but ultimately fulfilling work. The kind of tired you feel after you’ve won the gold, ran the mile, found your way home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne buries her face in Sasha’s shoulder and whispers two words:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>~🗡️~</p><p>
  <span>The road to redemption is the longest one a person can ever walk. Sasha knows that now, she knows it intimately and deeply as if it were engraved on her bones. She knows it like a blind man knows the sun will rise, not out of personal confirmation, but of truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Redemption is hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she thinks she’s made a couple good strides already. She’s not gonna get ahead of herself, she knows she’s just barely scratched the surface, but her newly granted freedom to roam around the camp is proof of progress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s learned to take what she can get.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been about two weeks since the attack and, all things considered, things are going well. Newts have started moving back into their homes and new ones are under construction for the displaced. The Toads have settled into their own camp, their newly elected leaders sitting in on discussions with the Newtopian council every day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy is awake and recovering and already giving poor Anne an anxiety attack with her requests for work, while Anne’s little platoon of frogs try their hardest to keep the two from working themselves into an early grave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Sasha is…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s trying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the one hand, she can hold a conversation with Anne for longer than twenty seconds and her aversion to anything and everything edible seems to have gone away, but on the other…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She still wakes up screaming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then again, that might just be how she lives now. She isn’t naive enough to think that one traumatic experience will trump another. Her dreams are a mess of blood and shouting, swords and screams and death that leaks so very potently from her hands it might as well be solid. She can’t tell where one ends or another begins, when the person on the other side of her blade is a human or a toad, she doesn’t really know if it matters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had debated going to see Grime-- after she was finally granted her freedom-- but had ultimately decided against it. What could he tell her that she didn’t already know? What could he say she wasn’t already screaming at herself internally?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Traitor. Murderer. Monster.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All true in one sense or another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then again, she’d paid her penance for that, hadn’t she?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What else would she call her and Anne’s matching amputations? Karma?</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sigh leaks from Sasha’s mouth and she lets her head hang, chin resting against her chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Karma. That’s not fair. If it were Karma or penance or any of that then Marcy would still be in one piece.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha knows the dangers of taking responsibility for things that are not the result of your actions, she’s seen it one too many times in Anne, but she also knows that she led the Toads here. She got Grime up and off his ass in the first place. She is the one who decided that conquering Newtopia was the next logical step in their quest for power. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She brought the army to the kingdom’s doorstep, forgive her if she feels a tad responsible for the devastation it had wreaked, even if it was done in her absence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Through the crack in the tent-flap she can see Anne gesticulating wildly, eliciting a chuckle from the bed’s resident. Sasha’s hands tighten into fists at her side. Well, hand. Her right thumb curls but there’s nothing for it to ball against so it ends up hanging precariously over the nub of her palm. Idly, she wonders if she can still punch with that hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A question for another day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches, tense as a trip-wire, as Anne and Marcy converse, gentle jibes and affectionate words traded between them with little regard to who might be listening in. Sasha is reminded of sleepovers that feel like thousands of years ago and nights in a cold prison cell with a card deck splayed before her, an evil glint in dark eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying, a pogo leg-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear to god-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon. Admit you’re curious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d somehow end up launching yourself into the stratosphere, probably while on fire. Do you really want to test Newtopia’s fire brigade because you launched yourself through the city like a living shooting star?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They could use the training.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think all this ‘honorary princess’ stuff is going to your head.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a princess!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another fit of laughter. Anne leans forwards, right hand outstretched to touch something that Sasha can’t see. A weight settles in Sasha’s stomach but is quickly chased away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, what did she expect?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They keep at it for a good while, at least until the sun has found its way into the curve of Newtopia’s remaining walls and has painted the camp a warm golden hue. Then, and only then, does Anne rise from her seat on Marcy’s bed and make her excuses to leave. Even then, the exchange is drawn out almost comically long with lingering touches and stolen glances, eventually ended by a press of Anne’s lips against Marcy’s forehead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get some sleep.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes her escape on quiet toes, leaving behind a silent girl whose face couldn’t resemble a tomato more if she painted it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some deeply buried part of Sasha remembers that this is comical.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She decides to give Marcy a couple of minutes to remember her name before she makes her approach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy still manages to jump almost a full foot in the air when she enters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“GwaaAAAUGh, where the hell did you come from?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha tries her very hardest to keep her facial expression neutral, but she’s pretty sure the corners of her mouth have tilted upwards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The depths of hell.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s expression, still ever so slightly tinged with red, quickly smooths out into one closer to the annoyance she’s become used to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, you wish hell would take you back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That gets a snort out of Sasha and it almost feels good to release it. She’s still getting used to talking again, that first week after the attack had been hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been she couldn’t speak, more that she just… didn’t really have it in her to try. Everything had felt distant and disconnected, like she was a NPC in a video game that hadn’t quite loaded properly. The rest of the world went on without her and all she could manage to do was watch it. Silently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It still doesn’t quite feel real, but she can at least talk again. At least move again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She picks her way through Marcy’s tent, which she notes is far better decorated than her own. Perks of being an ‘honorary princess’ or whatever Anne called her, she guesses. A couple chairs are stacked up and a cart beside Marcy’s bed holds more than a few stacks of paperwork along with a tray of potion vials and what looks like a get-well card. Pinned above Marcy’s bed is a map of Newtopia with pencilled-in notes of what districts have been hit the hardest and what parts need to be redesigned. Anne really wasn’t kidding when she called her a workaholic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, at least that’ll probably make this conversation easier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha sets herself on Marcy’s bed, a little further down than the place Anne had just been, and tries her hardest to find that stubborn recklessness she used to hold onto with such pride.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, pogo-leg?” she tries, and Marcy’s face quickly regains some of its colour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How, uh, how long were you out there?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha smirks. It’s a familiar expression even if it makes some of the muscles in her jaw ache.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Long enough.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s eyes narrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you even supposed to be up and about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha shrugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Medically? No. Legally? I’m allowed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s sighs could rearrange natural landmarks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dammit Sasha.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha chuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Relax, I got off pretty easy,” she waves her right hand for emphasis and ignores the pained expression that flickers over Marcy’s face, “‘tis but a scratch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s a hell of a scratch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re one to talk, pogo-leg.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m still in bed, asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah but you’re giving poor Anne the run-around. Not to mention what I’ve overheard from some of the Newtopian guards. New taxation system, really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy lets out a little frustrated huff and sits up, pulling on a scowl that Sasha is intimately familiar with as her ‘lecture-time’ face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The repairs aren’t gonna pay for themselves and the upper-rings of the kingdom were almost completely untouched-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Spare me the details, Marce, I really don’t have the mental capacity for government shenanigans right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s face curls into a little pout at being interrupted, but quickly finds it within herself to recover. She settles Sasha with a curious gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here, anyway?” It’s a strangely gentle question, especially considering other ones they’ve flung at each other in the past. Maybe they’re both just too tired out from everything else. “I figured you’d be using your newfound freedom to get some of that ‘yard-time’ you used to complain about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha snorts and lightly bumps Marcy’s good leg with her bad hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment she just lets the silence hang, trying to find the best way to say it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s never been the one of them who was good with words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t go back now. You know that, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long, tense moment Marcy doesn’t answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s said with a sigh, though not a particularly heavy one. If anything, it just sounds resigned. Expectant, even. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha closes her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s no way we could explain this… any of this…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy chuckles, though there’s no real humour in it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, and if the missing limbs didn’t give it away-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The night-terrors would.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence hangs between them and it feels like the guillotine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever the asshole, Sasha opens her eyes and breaks it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do we tell Anne?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy raises her brows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The truth?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha scowls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh sure, ‘hey Anne, we’re too traumatized to even think about going back to the human world right now. Do you mind putting your entire life on pause and not seeing your family for possibly years while we get our shit sorted out?’ that’ll go over well.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy rolls her eyes so hard Sasha’s convinced she’s going to give herself an aneurysm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You do realize Anne’s missing a limb too? And that she’s both very empathetic and reluctant to leave the Plantars.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha makes a face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s flattens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Her frog family,” She deadpans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Sasha mutters, feeling somewhat dumb. Marcy shakes her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, Anne’s got it just as bad as we do and she understands that whatever it is we’ve got going on here, now, isn’t gonna get any better if we go gallivanting off into the human world right now. We </span>
  <span>need time, all of us, to adjust to our new realities. Then, and only then, can we even think about getting home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stares Marcy down, trying her hardest to parse out if she’s as confident in her words as she sounds, and Marcy meets her gaze without so much as a blink. Finally, she admits her defeat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You two really are good for each other.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s expression quickly flashes through the seven stages of grief before landing on flustered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh-what, we’re not-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can it, pogo-leg, I saw that kiss earlier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy’s face takes on a shade of red that Sasha thought was only possible in cartoons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>kiss!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha rolls her eyes and climbs to her feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Forehead touch, Eskimo kiss, whatever you wanna call it. Point is, I’ll enjoy watching the disaster unfold.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha goes to make her exit to the stuttered protests of one Marcy Wu and a weight slowly lifting from her chest.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HOOOOOO BOY!</p><p>I'm sorry for the long wait on that one but classes hit me like a train and then I spent weeks contemplating how exactly I wanted each POV to wrap up. All that's left is the epilogue now, so I hope you enjoyed. </p><p>Also, THERE'S SO MANY OF YOU NOW WHAT THE HELL?!</p><p>All ranting aside, thank you so much for being on this journey with me, I hope it's lived up to your expectations. Also, I'm thinking of doing a Marcanne soulmate one-shot soon, or maybe hopping back into TOH, we'll just have to wait and see. See ya around!</p><p>-Reyna</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry that True Colors got pushed back, here's some rare fluff from me in the meantime</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three Years Later</p><p> </p><p>~🐸~</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sprig!” Anne shouts up the stairs, “Where did you put my sword?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Behind the couch!” He shouts back and Anne has to repress the urge to growl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell were you doing with it behind the couch?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He couldn’t reach the chips!” A second, more feminine voice calls back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So he stabbed them?!” Anne holds up the offending weapon finding that, indeed, there is a bag of chips impaled on the end of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s stupid!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kids, stop yelling across the house!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne winces. Hop-Pop’s hearing has started to go in the past year and him complaining about noise has become a more and more common occurrence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry Hop-Pop!” the two voices chorus from upstairs and Anne rounds the corner of the living room to poke her head into the kitchen. Sure enough, Hop-Pop is bent over a cauldron that holds what is likely supposed to be breakfast, but if she’s lucky she’ll be gone before she has to choke it down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He catches her gaze over the top of it and straightens to fix her with a risen brow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s got ya up so bright and early, anyway?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sheepish smile stretches over Anne’s lips and she reaches up to tug at her ponytail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marce and Sash wanna have a meeting. I think we’re finally gonna go after the temples.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If possible, Hop-Pop’s brows rise higher.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why now?” He asks, carefully neutral, and adds a handful of something definitely not meant to be added to the bubbling broth. “Thought y’all were getting comfortable here…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne winces again but holds onto that sheepish smile with as much gusto as she can manage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We are,” she assures, “just, y’know… we’re almost adults, Hop-Pop. If we don’t try now there’s not really a point in trying again later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods, a strange look coming over his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When you say almost adults...” he starts and Anne brings her hand from her hair to her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear to frog, Hop-Pop-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying, there’s no harm in getting a jump on it-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am not proposing to Marcy!” Anne shouts in a huff, ignoring the heat quickly travelling to her cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been dating for three years.” He pleads with his best attempt at puppy eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And we’ll keep dating until we’re out of college! I am not having this discussion again!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A chorus of snickers come from up the stairs and Anne casts her best glare in their direction. Two impish faces of teenage frogs stare back at her looking equally amused by her embarrassment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne-and-Marcy-sittin-in-a-tree-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok, that’s it, goodbye!” She makes a mad dash for the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne!” Hop-Pop shouts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She slams against the door with all the force of someone who can outrun a Leopard-Mantis.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whaaaaat?” she sulks, spinning on her heel and sinking back against the already abused wood. Hop-Pop just raises his brows again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glances down at the offending appendage, only to find an empty space. A groan claws its way out of her throat and she stomps her way back into her basement room to retrieve the metal contraption. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s really more of a claw than a hand, the ‘fingers’ made of two moveable sections, one that might’ve been her middle and forefinger, the other her ring and pinky. The ‘thumb’ is covered in thick leather padding as to prevent itself from accidentally scratching anything like her first prosthetic had done one too many times. The result is effective, even if it looks like she’s been cursed to do the ‘spock hand’ thing permanently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes it all the way back up the stairs and to the door before Hop-Pop coughs loudly. She pauses, giving him a flat look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cloak?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She groans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that cold-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna be flying,” he bites back, crossing his arms. “Humor me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She drags her feet over to the coatrack to retrieve the purple cloak the Plantars had given her as her seventeenth birthday present. It itches a little when she clips it over her armour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hop-Pop hums, dissatisfied, and taps a finger against his chin, an impish smirk stretching over his face. Anne narrows her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, he spreads his arms wide, smirk still firmly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hug?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne rolls her eyes but it's more for show than anything else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going soft in your old age, Hop-Pop,” she grumbles but bends down to hug him anyway, taking solace in the familiar sensation of his chuckle against her temple.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be home in time for dinner.” is his only response.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stands back up and offers him a salute on her way out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will do!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>___</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Newtopia hasn’t changed since her last visit. Then again, her last visit was, like, three days ago, so she’d be more concerned if it had. The rebuilt outer-wall shines its normal shade of cerulean and the streets are just as packed with bustling bodies of Newts and Toads alike. The rail system between Newtopia and Toadburg is still under construction, but it looks like they’ve finished the station in Toadburg at least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After what was referred to as ‘Grime’s Siege’ the Newtopian council had decided that the first and most logical punishment for the Toad Army for their involvement was to be the ones to complete the reconstruction of Newtopia’s outer walls. They had done so, but the project had taken so long that by the time it was complete the Toad’s ‘camp’ had turned into more of a shanty-town. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of negotiations and Marcy and Sasha acting as ambassadors between the two parties to get it signed off as an official neighbour to Newtopia. It was still mostly constructed out of makeshift wooden supports and tarps, but more and more of Toadburg was becoming permanent structures of brick and mortar by the day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It probably helped that the elected Mayor of Toadburg was willing to accept any suggestions that Marcy gave him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne glides over Toadburg, Newtopia’s outer walls, and up through the rings of the city with little more than an appreciative glance. Flying may be the fastest mode of transportation in Amphibia, but it's also Anne’s least favourite. She doesn’t think she really has a fear of heights, more just one of the inevitable damage that falling could do to her already pretty well-battered body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Especially if Marcy was serious about wanting to finally go back to earth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She honestly doesn't know what to feel about that. On the one hand, she had a point. If they didn’t go back now there wasn’t really a point in ever going back, they were almost adults. On the other, they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>more adapted to Amphibia than Earth at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne wasn’t even sure if she remembered what her mother’s voice sounded like anymore, or whether her father had a beard or not when she left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She touches down just in front of the Palace, sliding off of her sparrow’s back with a practised ease. A stable-hand is taking the reins from her almost before she can register it. A couple familiar-looking guards shout greetings as she breezes past, taking stairs two at a time and stopping by the third gargoyle to press on its second toe. The gargoyle lifts several feet and Anne ducks through the newly revealed passage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pops back out just outside Marcy’s corridor, darkened grey stone giving way to a sunlit hallway lined with familiar green tapestries, her footsteps suddenly becoming light as she quietly sneaks her way to the door. It opens without so much as a creak of wood or unoiled hinges, revealing the hunched figure worrying over diagrams inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dark hair hangs over a face with rounded cheeks and a sharp nose, golden goggles just barely peeking out from the strands. Her coat hangs over her chair, discarded in favour of the sleeveless tunic beneath that allows her arms to be covered in lines and lines of frantically scrawled notes. Some in English, others in Amphibian, a few in Mandarin for flavour, most of it smudged beyond what any normal person could reasonably read. The gloves on her hands--once green-- have long since gone black from all of the ink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne watches, fond, as a current of words comes out of Marcy’s mouth, most of it just as indecipherable as the notes on her arms. Her quill moves at a pace that would be enviable to a hummingbird. Occasionally she reaches down to her belt to dip the tip of her quill in the inkwell she has secured there, heedless of the drops of ink that occasionally stain her trousers and boots.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy blows a puff of air up her face to try and get some of the hair out of it, then goes to wipe her arm over her forehead, leaving behind a streak of black. A disgruntled squeak claws from her throat and Anne has to restrain the urge to chuckle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All for nothing, it appears, as Marcy doesn’t so much as flinch when Anne’s arms circle around her waist, nor does her current of thoughts pause for longer than a second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Could Anne do the strength trial? Maybe, but if there’s anything to do with grip that might be an issue... oh, on that note Sash might have trouble too… shoot, maybe I should have Sash do the first trial and get her to train me up for the third…” She trails off, but only because Anne lets out a disappointed squeak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What gave me away?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy chuckles, soft, and flips the cap down on the inkwell at her waist, sealing it with a soft click before placing the quill down on one of many tables dotted around the room. She turns in Anne’s hold and grins before tapping her left foot to her right. It lets out a quiet beep before extending to an unnatural length to allow Marcy to press a kiss to her cheek.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne’s last growth spurt left her as the tallest of the three of them-- something Sasha still took as a personal slight-- but Marcy seemed to take as a challenge to find more and more creative ways of showing her affection.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You still need to watch your foot-work, lead-foot.” She chastises and Anne can’t help but pout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t I be calling you that?” She taps Marcy’s extended foot with her toe for emphasis.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just because I have several different customizable attachments for my leg-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh shut up.” Anne cuts Marcy off with a kiss, getting the startled squeak she had been hoping for earlier. She must’ve tapped her foot again, or maybe it’s on a timer because she lowers slowly until Anne has to brace her hands on the table in front of them for support. Marcy’s hands snake up her arms to wrap around her neck, firmly keeping her in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, they pull away for breath, but it is a slow thing, their noses still resting together. Bodies still much closer than strictly necessary. Marcy is smiling like the cat that got the cream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re early,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne chuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How sweet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, I’m adorable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re an asshole, is what you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m hurt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take it up with your therapist.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That gets a full laugh out of her and Marcy’s grin just widens. Three years is a long time to date a person. Especially when you’re intermittently dealing with long-distance, near-death experiences, and enough trauma to kill a horse, but Anne thinks that their relationship is stronger for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s certainly more interesting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Sasha?” She casts a glance at the conspicuously empty room, no angry-faced blonde in sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sighs and releases her grip on Anne’s neck, but doesn’t quite pull away. She jumps up, sitting atop her desk, and swings her feet a bit in frustration.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Toadburg,” she grumbles and Anne lets her brows rise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mayor Percy having her give him a pep-talk again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Worse,” Marcy mutters, “he asked her to help him prepare for re-election.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne winces. Sasha’s come a long way but politics are a pretty good way to get that good old-fashioned mean-streak to rear its ugly head again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s gonna be late?” she guesses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, definitely.” Marcy chuckles, and Anne shakes her head, finally retracting from their embrace. She rounds the table and drops herself into one of the several chairs scattered about the place. Honestly, at this point Marcy’s bedroom is turning into the new war-room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d think she’d plan around this…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sighs, a serious expression falling over her face. She reaches up and tugs at the base of one of her gloves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think she might be having cold feet, this is a big step y’know…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne cocks her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>having cold feet?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She suggested it,” Marcy says as if that’s obvious, “I was fully prepared to live out the rest of our lives here but she said she wanted to make a final go at it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh…” Anne mutters, honestly somewhat surprised. “Wasn’t she the one who suggested we stay here in the first place?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To be fair,” Marcy interrupts, “we were all thinking it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne hums, acquiescing. It doesn’t stop her gaze from wandering to the map pinned above Marcy’s bed. Some architectural plans for Toadburg are pinned up beside it, but the majority of the map is filled with microscopic notes that Marcy can only read with the help of her goggles and a normal person would be forgiven for mistaking for lines.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of Toadburg..” she starts and Marcy lets out a groan, sliding off her desk with an overdramatic thump.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not overworking myself! You can ask Lady Olivia-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you’re using your arms instead of the very nice notebook I got you for our anniversary, why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, a narrowed pair of eyes appear over the top of Marcy’s desk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...l’rdeesssendt…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I already used it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne sighs and runs her prosthetic back through her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna make me go gray before I even reach twenty.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, if any of us are gonna go gray it’s gonna be me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not something to be proud of, Marbles.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy sticks out her tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne rolls her eyes. She grabs a loose piece of paper and tears off the corner to ball it up and chuck it at Marcy’s head. There’s a shrill squawk. Marcy grabs her own projectile, an inkblot, and lugs it back. Anne ducks, sliding to the floor, and searches for another object for retribution. To no avail it seems, there’s the sound of many knick-knacks clattering about and Anne only has time to glance up in abject terror as Marcy dumps a crate of writing instruments and assorted desk accessories over her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She spits out a mouthful of quills to the trill of Marcy’s laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She narrows her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Target acquired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy only gets a couple of seconds to revel in her victory before Anne tackles her, digging her fingers into her side and getting a shriek in her ear for her effort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anne- no- I-” she cuts herself off with another shriek of laughter and Anne lets a manic grin stretch across her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who needs to watch their foot-work now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy squirms beneath her, trying desperately to get free but only managing to knock her goggles askew.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tha- That’s not even-” Marcy squeaks again and Anne chuckles, continuing her onslaught.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was that, Princess? I’m having trouble understanding-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh shut up!” Marcy manages to get a leg free and slams it against the floor. The force is enough to rock Anne off balance and Marcy takes the opportunity to flip them so that she’s on top. She catches Anne’s offending hands and easily pins them above her head, looming over her with a smirk and a green glint in her eyes. “Who’s the princess now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne grins her best innocent smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pouts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Smartass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s your job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy snorts and leans down, pressing another kiss to Anne’s lips. The hands holding hers by the wrist loosen and Anne takes the opportunity to reach up and cup Marcy’s cheek with her good hand. The metal one carefully braces against her hip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d learned pretty quickly after Anne got the thing that she had to be careful with what she held in it, pressure control wasn’t exactly a precise science and she’d lost count of the amount of times she’d accidentally bruised someone while trying to shake their hands. Sasha had similar issues, but her prosthetic was a bit more finely tuned to allow movement for her individual fingers so her issue was more pinching people than crushing their limbs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne wasn’t aware of any immediate issues with Marcy’s, but then again, she spent half of her free-time tweaking it so it’d probably blown up at least once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(It had blown up three times.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I interrupting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy pulls away from Anne with an audible pop and Anne immediately releases her in favour of clapping her hands to her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha stands against the doorframe in all her smug, snarky glory. The sleeves of her finely-pressed white shirt have been folded up to the elbows and one of the suspenders that usually keep her trousers aloft has come unlatched. Sweat sticks her bandana to her neck but does nothing to keep her mop of blonde hair out of her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha!” Marcy smiles wide, bright and nervous, hands waving around her face. “What are you doing here?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of Sasha’s brows lifts, smirk still firmly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I sleep across the hall.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up, asshole.” Anne groans from her place on the floor. Her face has taken on an impressive shade of red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha chuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh I’m sorry. I forget how grumpy she gets when I interrupt make-out time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne lets her hands slide down from her face, but only so she can settle Sasha with a glare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am going to kill you in your sleep.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully you’ll have better luck than I did,” she teases. When she smiles the scars on the left-side of her face stretch, the original one Anne gave her and the second from a scuffle with a troop of rogue Toads. “Pro-tip: don’t announce your presence by declaring your cowardice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok, that’s it. Marcy, let me up-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m shaking in my boots.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will steal your fucking fingers, don’t think I wont!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sasha,” Marcy interrupts the impending argument. “Don’t be a pest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s hands raise in surrender, but that smirk is still firmly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, m’lady.” She makes a show of bowing at the waist while Marcy rolls her eyes. It takes a couple minutes for Marcy to rearrange all of the papers and knick-knacks she and Anne knocked over </span>
  <span>in their scuffle, Sasha making suggestive faces the whole while. Anne shows her a particular finger and Sasha responds with two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne sticks out her tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha reaches up to pull at the flesh beneath her right eye only to pause and raise a brow. When Anne only manages a confused expression back a grin tugs its way over her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anne stiffens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That grin never means anything good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Anne,” Sasha’s voice has taken on that saccharine sweet tone that always denotes something that is going to embarrass her for years to come. She reaches out and plucks something from a fold in Anne’s waistband, holding it up to the light. “Is this what I think it is?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha-” Anne only gets half the word out of her mouth before she’s interrupted by a gasp. She glances over to see Marcy staring at Sasha’s offering with a shit-eating grin on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anna-banana!” Marcy cries and claps a hand to her chest overdramatically. “Is that an engagement ring?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?!” Anne whirls around to see that, indeed, the thing clutched in Sasha’s outstretched hand is in fact an engagement ring, and a fairly old looking one at that. It has a well worn golden band and a sizable diamond implanted into the top, held on either side by the sigil of the Newtopian crown. Heat goes rushing through Anne’s face as she realizes what just happened. “Hop-Pop!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha bursts into a laugh that sounds like it hurts, falling to her knees from the force of it. Marcy takes the opportunity to snatch the ring from her outstretched hand, making a show of placing it on her finger and batting her eyes in Anne’s rapidly colouring face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh you rapscallion, you,” she places the now ring-bearing hand against her forehead in an approximation of a fainting victorian woman, “and without asking the King’s permission?! How rebellious!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha is laughing so hard that no noise is coming out of her mouth, tears pouring down her cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy give me the fucking-” Anne lunges for the ring only for Marcy to spin gracefully away, still doing her best impression of a victorian bride-to-be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Such foul language! I’m not too sure my father would approve!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear to Frog-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right of course!” Marcy comes to an abrupt stop, nearly having Anne headbutt her in the mouth. She catches her hands in her own, holding them together between them and boasting her broadest, most shit-eating grin. “We need to elope immediately!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the briefest of moments, the image of Marcy in a wedding gown flashes through her mind and Anne almost forgets how to stand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- wha-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marcy!” Sasha shrieks from her puddle of shaking limbs on the ground, “I’m gonna fucking pee!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corners of Marcy’s mouth finally split as she throws back her head in a mad cackle, leaving Anne to stew in her blushing embarrassed state alone while her two closest friends laugh at her misery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s taken a long, long time to get here. Three years of countless sleepless nights and tearful days, moments where they wanted nothing more than to just curl into a ball and stop existing. It’s been three long hard years, but now they can stand together in a room and joke and laugh and tease like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like they’re all still whole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s more than any of them could’ve ever asked for.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy eventually gets a handle on herself while Sasha manages to catch her breath, still fighting off the occasional bout of snickers. Anne just stands there, arms crossed and expression drawn into her best approximation of a pout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You done?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marcy wipes a few errant tears from her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah,” she slides the ring from her finger and places it in Anne’s outstretched hand. But before she can fully take it back Marcy uses the leverage to pull her in close, “but I do expect to see this little guy again eventually.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Red flushes back over Anne’s face as Marcy pulls away, sauntering over to her desk and rearranging her make-shift diorama. Sasha lets out a wolf-whistle. Anne steps on her foot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright girls,” Marcy begins with a winning smile and spreads her arms wide, “Who’s ready to go home?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for sticking with me kiddos. I hope to see you all again in the future, in the meantime, I have a couple of one-shots in the works so keep an eye out for me. I can't believe we got this far... thank you from the bottom of my heart. If there's anything in particular you'd like to see from me in the future feel free to let me know about it in the comments.<br/>Yours truly,</p><p>Reyna</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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